False Imperium
by nicq98
Summary: Years have passed since the Empire completed the Death Star and cemented its reign of terror across the galaxy. Palpatine, looking for new worlds to rule, turns his eye far outside the known universe, to the Imperium of Man. The clash that follows shall try the resolve of both sides, and involve dark powers not even the Sith can master.
1. The Whispering Darkness

Disclaimer: Star Wars is owned by Disney, and Warhammer 40,000 is owned by Games Workshop.

Author's Note: This idea for a Star Wars/40K crossover fanfic has been rattling around in my head for a while now, and I've finally decided to give it a go. We're looking at a substantial serial to run alongside my other 40K story, _Gifts of the Blood God_. Right now, since I happen to have a ton of free time, I can update each story every other week, for a minimum of one update per week, but that may change. I hope you look forward to reading this as much as I do writing it!

**Unknown World, 4.31 AVY (After Victory at Yavin):**

TK-5630 was the only survivor of the crash. The shuttle's dim emergency lights revealed the cabin around him to be a scene of carnage, the bodies of his comrades strewn about like they'd been toyed with and discarded by a capricious child. They were dead to a man, as was the pilot—impaled through the neck by a shard of transparisteel—and the copilot—crushed from the waist down when his half of the cockpit folded in on itself. While he'd had friends among his squad, he wasted no time mourning them. All that mattered was that he executed his emergency training: activate the homing beacon, access the survival kit, and secure the area, then wait for rescue. The Empire needed stormtroopers; it was his duty to make it out of here alive, and in fighting condition.

First, the beacon. It was located in a compartment on the right side of the cockpit's forward bulkhead—exactly where the shuttle had hit the ground first, and the spaceframe had folded in around the unfortunate copilot. TK-5630 couldn't access it. Was there a backup? There might have been a backup, but he couldn't remember—his crash preparedness training had been a while ago, and at the time he'd never thought he'd have to use it.

The survival kit, at least, seemed to be all right. He entered the cabin again and lifted a floor panel, revealing a grey box trimmed with red. It contained flares, bandages, rations, other essentials. As only one man he would be able to make them last for a long time. There was also a hyperwave transceiver, which was a pleasant surprise—he wouldn't necessarily need the homing beacon. He set it to transmit on all emergency frequencies, and started speaking.

"This is trooper TK-5630. My shuttle has crashed on…" He couldn't remember the name of the planet; in fact, he wasn't sure he'd ever been told. "My shuttle has crashed. _Lambda_-class, flight number AC 2171. I am the only survivor. If you can hear me, please respond."

Nothing. Over his shoulder, sparks shot from a dangling bundle of cables.

"Repeat. This is trooper TK-5630. _Vindicator_, do you read me?"

The Star Destroyer _Vindicator_ must have been in range, it had launched his shuttle. Unless it had made the jump to hyperspace immediately afterwards. He could be the only Imperial within light-years, alone on a dark, benighted world…

Enough of that. He was a stormtrooper, and he did not know fear.

He checked one more time that everybody else was dead, then made his way out of the shuttle, blaster in hand. Stars twinkled overhead. It was an alien sky, in an alien galaxy, and dominating it all was a livid purple expanse—the Eye of Terror, the locals called it. Colors swirled within, mottled patches of pink and violet. It was like a nebula blown out of all proportion. Indeed, it was like an eye, watching him.

He held a flashlight in one hand, pressed the activation key. It brightened an oval patch of grass in front of him at the expense of making everything else much darker. The shuttle lay crashed beside him on the steppe, and beyond it there was only a host of shallow, rolling hills, marching away into the night. Not a bird nor a gust of wind disturbed the quiet.

TK-5630 made a sweep of the area, out to twenty meters from the crash site. Nothing of interest. Grass, some of it scorched, and pieces of spacecraft.

He was just on his way back to the tall, dark shape of the _Lambda_ when something spoke to him:

"Jeiran."

Nobody had called him that in two years. Stormtroopers were taught to forget their old names, their old lives, and dedicate themselves fully to the cause of order in the galaxy. He'd been TK-5630 ever since he put on the helmet.

"Jeiran."

He paused. The voice was familiar—it was his wife's. Vera was in another galaxy, of course, and hadn't spoken to him since he'd gone to the recruitment center on Corellia. It had to be a hallucination. Fatigue, perhaps? Residual shock from the landing?

"Our daughter's alive, Jeiran. Come see her."

They had been so happy. So young. Married at age nineteen, a child at twenty. His daughter, Ena, had been the light of his life.

Then, when she was three years old, a speeder hit her and Vera as they walked across the street. Vera survived with a broken arm and several fractured ribs; Ena lingered only for a few days. The authorities had punished the driver with ten years in a penal colony, but that didn't bring his daughter back.

Grief destroyed his marriage. He could hardly stand to look at Vera, when she so resembled the daughter who'd been taken from him. They fought, Vera saw other men, Jeiran drank. Eventually he decided to salvage some scrap of purpose in his life by joining the Stormtrooper Corps, and leaving Corellia behind forever.

Which had brought him to another galaxy. Which had brought him here.

He swung the flashlight, but there was nothing within the long bright parabola it cast on the ground. He remained alone.

The air inside his helmet was getting stifling, and it reeked of sweat. TK-5630—_not_ Jeiran—took it off and dropped it to the ground. Technically that was against regulations, but regulations were the least of his worries, given the circumstances.

"Come back, Jeiran. Things can be like they used to be."

He saw his wife, standing not five paces away. He shone the flashlight straight at her. She _looked_ like Vera, but she just wasn't right, somehow, like a perfect mask that was still recognizably a mask. Maybe it was something in the eyes.

"You're not Vera," he said, raising the blaster with his other hand. "I don't know what the hell you are, but you're not her."

"Please come back. I love you."

Her voice sounded off, too, now that he thought about it. Then again, it had been so _long_ since he'd seen her…

"You're not Vera, dammit!"

Something crawled in the darkness, in his peripheral vision. He got the impression of spines and teeth and dimly glowing eyes. His heart skipped a beat, and he brought the flashlight around, but the moment light touched the creature it vanished. So had "Vera."

He tried to think. This had to be some foul species of alien, one never encountered before—and whatever it was, it saw inside his mind. It used sorcery just like that of the perfidious, half-mythical Jedi.

"Show yourself," he said. "What are you?"

"I'm very interested in knowing what _you_ are, actually. You're not from around here." This voice was… very different. Guttural. Slowly the thing of eyes and teeth reformed outside the beam of his flashlight, not far from the shuttle. "Different uniform from the corpse-worshipers. Different language. I've sensed it for a while, now: there's a new presence in the galaxy. Another gaggle of fools with delusions of empire. Their souls are so naive, so innocent..."

TK-5630 opened fire, blasting a trio of red plasma bolts into the darkness. The creature dissipated like smoke.

"Tell me, Jeiran," it went on, unperturbed, "does your culture have monsters? Demons?"

Something reached out—wet and slimy—and grabbed the flashlight from his hand. He struck back with the butt of his pistol and cleaved only through air.

"You grew up coddled. You never had to fear the darkness, or what lurks between stars."

"I am a stormtrooper in the service of His Imperial Majesty. I do not know fear." He fired more blaster shots, at nothing in particular. Perhaps it would scare this thing off.

"_Nothing_ scares me off, my friend." It had read his mind again. "Certainly not a single stormtrooper and his idle boasts."

TK-5630 turned and bolted for the shuttle. He was having no more of this. He would lock the hatch, then stand by the hyperwave transmitter until help arrived or he died of starvation.

He was almost at the hatch when the monster—the demon—rematerialized in front of him.

"You can't run." For a moment, it took the form of his wife again. "I am everything you brought with you."

He turned back. It was there, too—it was all around him. Then it lunged, a seething mass of tendrils and talons and mouths, and in that moment, as the demon clawed out his eyes, Jeiran knew fear.


	2. The Next World

Excerpt from _Hope_, by Leia Organa (later executed):

I was on Coruscant when I learned of Yavin's destruction. I heard it first from Imperial

propaganda, only afterwards from a source in the Rebel Alliance, who was captured and executed that same day. The Imperials had caught us by surprise, and deployed their newest, most powerful weapon against us. There were no survivors; the moon itself became rubble.

Was there any way we could have stopped that horror, after it was built? Some technological or human weakness we could have exploited? Maybe Yavin might have remained hidden for another couple of years, had the Empire not tracked one of our fighters straight to it. Or maybe we could have decentralized our assets, instead of having so many of our people destroyed by one shot from the Death Star. The counterfactuals are endless.

But it's too late, now.

All we can do is pass hope forward from generation to generation, until finally, perhaps a thousand years in the future, the long dark night of the Empire comes to an end.

**Kryos Installation, 2.12 AVY:**

Looking out at the Kryos Installation, Orson Krennic almost didn't mind having the Death Star stolen from under his feet. Almost.

The Death Star destroyed worlds. This opened them up. It revealed new vistas and new civilizations to conquer, vital for an Empire that, in its own galaxy, had already won. Challenge bred strength. Complacency bred weakness. Hundreds of years down the line, it was possible that posterity would remember the metal rings of Kryos more than the green flash of the superlaser.

But, it wasn't _his_. He hadn't slaved over this project for decades like he had the Death Star, he hadn't worked to convince and coerce the brightest minds of the Galaxy to help him—he'd just taken over, months before the breakthrough that propelled it from a technological boondoggle to the next frontier of Imperial expansion.

"Lord Vader has arrived, sir," announced an orderly at the back of the control room. He was dark-skinned, young, part of the generation that had grown up entirely in the Imperial era. Not like Krennic, a relic of the Clone Wars, or, for that matter, Vader, who had appeared so suddenly at the dawn of the Empire.

Krennic looked over his shoulder and nodded. "Excellent, lieutenant. Bring him in."

He looked back out, folding his hands behind his back. He still wore a white uniform and cape, much as he had on the Death Star, and he still displayed the rank plaque of an admiral—six red rectangles above six blue ones. Nevertheless, he was a disappointment in the eyes of the Emperor, a fool who had nearly allowed the destruction of the Empire's greatest weapon.

It was all because of Galen Erso.

The brightest of Krennic's bright minds, Galen Erso had turned out to be a traitor. He'd been caught conspiring with a pilot to reveal technical secrets to the Rebellion. After an investigation, and no small amount of torture, it became clear that not only had Erso planned to collaborate with the enemy, he had also sabotaged the Death Star itself, adding in a thermal exhaust port that could have been used to obliterate the whole station. Hasty redesigns fixed the problem, but the damage to Krennic's prestige was done.

Tarkin had proclaimed it a grave lapse of security. At least, that was his excuse to boot Krennic from the Death Star project and seize command for himself. So Wilhuff Tarkin ruled at the right-hand side of the Emperor, claiming the glory of destroying the Rebellion once and for all, and Krennic had been reassigned to a fanciful, dead-end dimensional gateway project—something nobody expected to come to fruition in a million years.

Now look where he was.

The door behind him hissed open, followed by the deep, rhythmic rasp of Vader's respirator. Heels clicked as officers stood at attention.

"Director Krennic."

Krennic turned. "Lord Vader."

Flanking Vader were four stormtroopers, two on each side, and a pair of officers—he recognized them as Captain Tersif, of _Vanquisher_, and Captain Pryde, of _Steadfast_. They were two of a handful of Imperial Navy commanders who had been briefed about this project; Tersif was short, with a bushy red mustache, while Pryde had a tall face and jet-black hair.

"The test vessel is ready?"

"It is, my lord." Krennic gestured out the window. The command center was in a small tower on the side of one of the installation's rings, of which there were three—forming a spherical cage—and in the center of the sphere hovered a tiny wedge-shaped starship, _Raider_-class. It was a mere 150 meters long, with a crew of ninety-two brave souls. It looked very much like a miniature Star Destroyer with the bridge shaved off. In just a few minutes, Director Krennic would send it into another universe.

"What's the status of the charging sequence?" he asked.

There were two banks of consoles dominating the command center, set at an angle to each other, and easily three dozen officers labored away at their armies of buttons and switches.

"99.4 percent, sir," answered a lieutenant. "Six minutes to full power level."

"Currently, the charging period is about twenty-five hours," Krennic said to Vader and the two captains. "We will bring it down to three hours, once the new superconductors are installed."

"And when will that be?" Vader asked.

Krennic nodded deferentially. "Four months, my lord."

"And can we recall the ship at any time?" asked Pryde.

"I'm afraid not. Once we establish the portal, and the _Pursuer_ goes through, the crew will not be able to return home until this installation has charged again."

"Some transportation system," Captain Tersif muttered to Pryde. "Twenty-five hours each way, one ship at a time… no way to launch an invasion."

"Shorter charging times and multi-ship capability will come soon enough, captain," Krennic said. "We are already able to accomplish much with our limited technology, and without yet sending any people through. Have you seen the maps we have compiled?"

"We have not had that privilege, director," said Vader.

Krennic grinned. "They're truly something to behold. If you'll follow me this way…" He approached a nearby table, and tapped a button to activate the holoprojector. The flickering image that appeared over the table was of a galaxy, viewed face-on—but it was not their galaxy.

"A month ago we sent a stripped-down freighter through the portal. It had an automated crew and carried a cargo of six hundred Viper probe droids, along with sixty mobile hyperwave relays. These were distributed throughout the enemy galaxy to create a rudimentary sensor network."

He pressed another button, and lines branched out across the map, showing the paths the probe droids had taken.

"How many communicated back?" Tersif asked.

"103."

"That makes no sense. The reliability of a Viper probe droid is—"

"Hyperspace seems to work… differently in the other world. It is _far_ more turbulent than we are used to."

That wasn't the half of it. Some of the probes—there had been 107 successes, not 103—had transmitted back rather troubling data, which Krennic's scientists were even now puzzling over, and which Darth Vader certainly did not need to be made aware of at this time.

"I see," said Captain Tersif. "What did we learn from the ones that _did _report back?"

"There, things get interesting."

He manipulated the controls, scrolled through reams of data. There appeared newly discovered planets, moons, even the vast pink nebula that had swallowed up every probe sent into it. Finally the holoprojector settled on a view from a planetary surface. There was a patch of rocky ground, and a figure standing in the middle.

A human figure. Vader showed no reaction, of course, but Pryde and Tersif both dropped their jaws a little.

While the human was bundled up in cloth and wore a mask, he was recognizably of the same species. It was clear from the eyes. He had a firearm at his hip, and carried a disorganized bundle of objects on his back.

"One of our probes encountered this man on a desert moon. He opened fire with what appears to be a laser weapon, disabling several cameras, but the droid escaped otherwise unharmed."

"What is he?" asked Pryde.

Krennic shrugged. "Scavenger, I suppose. Like one of the savages on Tatooine."

Vader stepped closer to the hologram, and tilted his head. "Have you found any other human worlds, Director Krennic?"

"Yes, Lord Vader. There have been similar sightings across the galaxy. This… mirror of our species is not confined to one planet, as we have discovered."

He showed them another holographic still. It was of a primitive farming world, where locals had gathered around the probe that had descended into their midst. They carried pitchforks as if they'd come straight from some bucolic idyll, though the four-legged reptilian beasts they used as pack animals were something quite new, as were the metal talismans several of them held up at arm's length—perhaps in an effort to ward off whatever evil the probe had brought.

"Note this symbol," Krennic said, pointing at one of the talismans and magnifying the hologram. It was silver, fashioned in the shape of a double-headed eagle, with stylized geometric wings. "It appears on buildings, trinkets, starships—"

"Hold on," Tersif said. "Tell us more about these starships. Are they armed?"

"We only got a good look at one, orbiting the third and final inhabited planet we discovered. And yes, it was armed— very much so." Krennic pulled up a view of it. There was a pause, as the captains processed exactly what they were seeing.

"It's hideous," said Pryde, grimacing.

It was, indeed, hideous. Not at all like the sober, clean lines of a Star Destroyer. This ship was a bulky thing, conveying the appearance of a cathedral uprooted and launched into space, and every surface on its hull was decorated in a way that could only be described as baroque, with spires and golden filigree predominating—alongside gun batteries to tear any foe to shreds. The same double-headed eagle from earlier appeared again, at a vast scale. And at the front of the craft, a sharp prow jutted into space, as if it had been designed with ramming other vessels in mind.

"How large is this ship?" asked Vader.

"4.5 kilometers long," Krennic replied.

The two captains exchanged glances, and Tersif whistled. "Not exactly a corvette," he said. "Do we reckon this is one of their battleships?"

Krennic rotated the hologram, giving them a view from several additional angles. "It must be, given the size. Strange, however, that there were no escorts with it."

"I wonder how it stacks up against our own designs," Captain Pryde said. "Would we need three Star Destroyers to take it down? Ten?"

"Hopefully we have more Star Destroyers than they have battleships," Krennic said.

"And we have the Death Star," Vader said. "A significant advantage, in my estimation. How long until the second portal is complete?"

Another set of rings were under construction in this system, much larger, intended to allow passage of the Death Star into the other universe. Krennic had deliberately stalled its progress. There was glory to be had out there, in the parallel universe, and he didn't want Tarkin to swoop in with his superweapon and seize all of it for himself. That hollow-cheeked bastard had already taken enough from him.

"Not long now, Lord Vader. But there are certain... technical difficulties surrounding a facility of that size."

Krennic felt a tightening around his throat. Floating around the halls of the Imperial high command were many rumors surrounding this mysterious power of Vader's. Some officers, it was said, had died this way.

"See that these 'technical difficulties' do not pose a problem for much longer, director."

"Sir," an officer spoke up. The tightness released as Vader turned his attention away. "The installation is fully charged."

"Excellent." Krennic reached a hand up to his neck, glanced at Darth Vader, then stepped forward until he was almost up against the glass. The starscape beyond was drowned out by light from this system's sun, leaving a field of inky black punctuated only by a scattering of starships and the installation's three perpendicular rings. Said rings were about twenty-five kilometers in diameter, ascending in size from innermost to outermost, and even the smallest was more than wide enough for an _Executor_-class dreadnought to fit through; the _Raider_-class corvette, _Pursuer_, dwindled to insignificance amidst such technological ambition.

The ring they were standing on was about half a kilometer thick and one kilometer wide. In either direction it diminished and curved inwards, until on the far side it was a thin band running opposite the command tower. Within each ring ran a blue strip that pulsed faintly with light—these were particle accelerators, collecting untold magnetic and kinetic energy to tear the very fabric of space asunder.

"Gentlemen," Krennic said, turning back to face Vader, Pryde, and Tersif. "In just a few moments now, we are going to make history. A crew of ninety-two will cross over into another universe, make their observations, and pave the way for conquests we can only now dream of. Imagine it!" He held out his hand towards the window. "A whole _galaxy _for the taking!"

"Sir," said one of his officers, "_Pursuer_ reports all systems ready."

Another spoke up: "Particle accelerators are operating at full capacity, sir. Tachyon field is fluctuating within parameters."

Krennic folded his arms, and looked over at Vader.

"You may proceed, director."

"Very well," Krennic said. "Station control… send them through."

"Right away, sir," reported a functionary. "Activating distortion field."

At once, the blue strip inside each ring brightened, pulsing faster and faster, and the miniscule ship within was bathed in a blue glow far overpowering the light of the nearby sun.

"Target locked, sir."

"Field at sixty percent discharge."

The very structure of the space station began to hum. The sound built in pitch, like that of a speeder engine just starting up, and light fixtures rattled on the ceiling.

"Field at eighty percent discharge."

Krennic did not move his gaze from the corvette. Particles were swirling around it, now, little motes of blue and green that danced like bubbles in hot water.

"Field at ninety percent discharge. Prepare for transition."

There was a flash, and the _Pursuer_ was in another universe. Only empty space remained in its wake.


	3. The Hive

Author's Note: Hello, all! Here is the long-awaited third chapter of "False Imperium." I think I owe you an explanation as to why I've been so quiet over these past few months: basically, I made the mistake of starting this story when I was grappling with some personal issues, and while I thought I was able to sustainably keep it up, it turned out I wasn't. I'm in a much better place now, though. I'll try to post updates every two weeks, and I'll probably resume my other story, "Gifts of the Blood God," too. I hope I can make it up to you guys!

**Unknown World, 2.12 AVY:**

The shuttle had touched down atop a circular exhaust vent on the north side of the city. Nobody seemed to have noticed it, yet—traffic swarmed through the skies of this world, so it was a tall order to pick out one odd-looking craft—but Major Fren Tykon, Imperial Intelligence agent, was taking no chances. He left three of his six death troopers behind to guard the spacecraft, with orders to destroy it if they were overwhelmed. Under no circumstances could Imperial technology fall into the hands of these alternate humans.

"Major Tykon, report," radioed Captain Brigain, of _Pursuer_, heard through a device implanted in the agent's ear canal.

"We have secured the perimeter, captain," said Tykon. He wore no helmet, exposing him to the reek of industrial fumes issuing from the vent beneath him. Perhaps that decision was a mistake. "I am leaving behind a contingent to guard the shuttle, scouting ahead with the rest. No contacts on the outside of the city's structure."

"Very good. Keep me informed, and avoid unnecessary engagements with the natives." Brigain spoke as if he were Tykon's superior, despite the fact that Tykon was part of a different chain of command entirely; the man was insufferably arrogant. It couldn't be helped.

The vent was some one hundred meters wide, its surface a grate with gaps barely smaller than Tykon's boots. He had to be careful walking here. To one side, the nearest habitat spire rose far into the sky, and to the other, a drop of more than a kilometer looked out over a brown wasteland crisscrossed by rivers of industrial pollution.

"Look for a maintenance entrance," he told the leader of the death troopers, Lieutenant Caldar. "Something we can use to get inside."

Finding anything was a challenge—the exterior of the nearby spire, and just about every other vertical surface in sight, was a dense jumble of pipes and hanging cables and narrow windows—and it didn't help that the sun was setting behind a thick blanket of smog, plunging the murk into a more complete darkness.

"Here, sir," said Caldar, pointing. To any observer his words would have sounded like a garble of static, but Tykon's ear implant decrypted it. "Looks like a smaller air vent."

Smaller than the one they were standing on, at least; this vent, a stone's throw away and maybe a meter off the ground, was still nearly as wide as the shuttle, with a fan spinning behind metal slats. Occasionally a piece of debris, drifting down from the upper levels, would be caught in the air flow and hurled over the ledge.

"Then let's cut our way through it. Do find a way to stop the fan, too."

Caldar shouted out orders. His men approached the vent, one of them with a plasma cutter, while Tykon scrutinized the architecture; you could tell a lot about a culture by their buildings. He'd learned that lesson as a cultural analyst on an Outer-Rim planet, populated by primitives. What little sophistication they'd had could be gleaned from the decorative frescoes and columns they put up around their mud huts. They'd been a fascinating people, and he'd almost felt sorry for them when the Empire put them all to work in the silver mines.

The slats on the soon-to-be-destroyed air vent, arranged radially, converged in the center on a metal plate, which bore the two-headed eagle Tykon was familiar with from the briefings. These people put their iconography everywhere, as if they thought it could ward off evil. It was likely they were an authoritarian society, likelier still they were dominated by religious impulses, and while the former was to be lauded, the latter would have to be beaten out of them by Imperial enlightenment. Gods belonged in the same rubbish heap as the Force.

The lead death trooper switched on his plasma torch, sending a cascade of sparks shooting down from the air vent. Tykon looked away. When the flickering light ceased, and he looked back, there was a round, uneven hole cut into the vent, revealing the spinning blades of the fan behind it. That was another problem; but while one death trooper had been cutting away at the metal, another had been prodding at the wires of what looked to be a control panel, and it only took a few minutes' tweaking to bring the blades to a halt. Between them were gaps large enough to crawl through.

Tykon quickly glanced to either side, then stepped forward towards the newly-cleared entrance. Nobody had climbed out to investigate his shuttle; there was seemingly no reaction from the people inside the spire. So far, so good.

"Let's go." The sooner he got away from the exhaust fumes under the landing site, the better, but given the tottering, rusting immensity of this city, and the millions of people doubtless living in squalor within it, he didn't imagine the inside would be much of an improvement.

The death troopers led the way, save for one who would hold up the rear. Tykon went in second to last. The air duct was cylindrical, though it turned a corner not far ahead, and even with the outer fan disabled there was a considerable current. It smelled of sweat, and machine oil, and… incense?

He walked. The metal walls of the duct bent under his feet, evidently not designed to support even a single man's weight. Long did they labor in the darkness, broken only by a pool of illumination from Lieutenant Caldar's flashlight, and by a flickering orange glow from up ahead. They turned another corner—there were multiple, this place was a maze—and then they came across a small vent, on the bottom of the air duct, looking out into the room that was the source of the glow. The smell of incense was stronger here.

The lead death trooper crouched down, pressed his helmet up against the grille, and reported back, "There's about a ten-meter drop to the floor. Multiple people nearby, apparently unarmed."

"Let me see." Tykon elbowed his way to the front of the column, and looked out.

Like seemingly everything in this hive city, the room was enormous. It was probably about forty meters across. Stone columns lined the walls, converging somewhere in the gloom overhead, and while there were electric lights, most of the illumination came from candles—hundreds and hundreds of candles, from finger-sized to forearm-sized, arranged around a bulky, humming machine in the center of the room.

These people had built a city seven kilometres tall, and completely rewritten the geography of this planet. What need did they have for candles?

There was more. Three red-robed figures walked among the candles, swinging censers. Incense smoke trailed behind them, swirling and collecting and eventually drifting up to the air vent from which he watched, and he saw that they were not fully human—robotic tendrils reached out of one man's back, another had glowing green eyes and metal tubing replacing his face, the third had no visible flesh at all. He had seen cybernetic modifications before, but this was a whole new level. It had the air of abomination about it.

"Caldar, come look at this," he said. The lieutenant replaced his subordinate at the air vent, which was really only wide enough to fit two people at a time.

"What are they doing?" Caldar asked, in a low voice. The cyborgs down below gave no indication of hearing them. They just proceeded with their strange ritual, chattering among themselves in bursts of static surprisingly similar to the death troopers' encryption.  
"Couldn't tell you. But it seems to have religious significance. Note how they're arranged the candles around that machine there—perhaps this is some form of technology worship?"

The machine in question was difficult to make sense of. It had a rounded base, and a multitude of pipes and cylinders crowded around it. Cables ran from its sides to unseen termini in the darkness above. A power generator, perhaps?

A pair of flying objects hovered nearby, and when Tykon got a good look at one of them he saw, with some revulsion, that it was a human skull, augmented with machinery much like the living cyborgs were. One eye socket was empty and the other glowed red. He thought he heard it hum a little.

"Do you see any weapons?" he asked Caldar.  
"No, sir, but I wouldn't underestimate them. We don't know what half of those implants can do."

"Hm. The question is, if we kill them, how many more will come scuttling out of the hive?"

"No way of knowing. But this city must be crowded, sir, and I'm not sure we should be drawing attention to ourselves. I recommend we move on and find another egress point."

One of the cyborgs looked up at the air vent. Tykon shrank away from it, but he was not fast enough—the man saw him. He spoke to his fellows in that strange garble of static, then shouted in another tongue Tykon didn't understand, this one more like a conventional language. Were his words a challenge, perhaps? A demand to know who he was and what he was doing up in the air duct? It didn't really matter, because there was no magic method of decoding alien speech—that was a problem for the _Pursuer_'s linguists.

Tykon drew his blaster from its holster and opened fire. A bolt of plasma streaked out, punching through the vent grille and catching the cyborg square in the chest. He collapsed onto the candles with a steaming hole blasted through his ribcage—assuming he still had one—while the two others drew their own weapons, materializing pistols from within their voluminous robes. They were unable to get off any shots before Caldar cut them down with a precise fusillade.

First contact had ended with three corpses, all of them from the other side. Tykon was happy with that.

"Let's get down there," he said. Caldar nodded and started issuing orders.

The flying skulls were nowhere to be seen, which was troubling. Perhaps they had gone off to warn somebody. The Imperials had to act quickly.

One death trooper kicked out the grille, sending it to clatter on the ground ten meters below; another lowered a cable, down which Lieutenant Caldar climbed, followed in turn by the two troopers and finally Tykon. It was good to stand on solid ground again, as opposed to the flimsy metal of the air duct. The floor vibrated slightly, the rumblings of some far-off machinery carrying through the vast structure of this hive, and he wondered just how many millions of people lived above and below him. He was reminded of Coruscant, though he'd never been there.

Tykon smelled burning flesh. He turned and saw that the candles had lit one of the dead cyborgs on fire, his robes providing ample kindling even if most of him was fireproof metal. Sparks shot out as electrical elements overheated.

"These are more advanced cybernetics than anything I've seen," Caldar remarked, prodding another body with his foot. "They're barely human anymore. Is everyone in the new galaxy like this?"

"We'll find out." Tykon pulled on a prosthetic arm, then shot at its base until it detached entirely. He handed the mutilated piece of machinery to a trooper. "Carry this with you. Scientists aboard the _Pursuer_ will want to analyze it. Caldar, document what we're seeing here."

"Understood, sir." The lieutenant glanced around at the dead priests, photographing the carnage with a camera built into his helmet. Tykon, meanwhile, raised the ship.

"Captain Brigain, can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear. You haven't called in a while, Agent Tykon. Is everything all right?"

"More than all right. We have made first contact with the enemy. No casualties on our side, three on theirs." Tykon watched the burning corpse. Flames licked at it, flickering, and the few visible scraps of flesh charred and blackened. Hopefully it wouldn't set off a fire alarm and draw still more attention.

"I thought I told you to avoid engag—"

"With respect, captain, you are not my superior."

"I _am _your ride home. If you want me to still be here when you—"

"I have no time for this. I will keep you posted on our discoveries—my lieutenant should be beaming photographs to the ship now."

He cut the line to the _Pursuer_, confident that, no matter his idle threats, Brigain would not incur the wrath of Imperial Intelligence by marooning one of its officers. The man was arrogant but not a fool.

Tykon motioned for his death troopers to follow him towards the room's single door. It was open by a crack—presumably that was how the skulls had gotten out—and swinging it further revealed a long hallway, dimly lit, lined with stacks of crates. The ceiling was high and there was a double-headed eagle motif etched into the far wall every few meters. Doors were spaced out along its length, leading to what must have been a warren of storerooms and passageways.

"Left or right, sir?" Caldar asked.

"Good question." He listened. There were hurried footsteps on the left—perhaps someone was coming to investigate the shooting. "Sounds like we've got hostiles on their way, from the left. Let's capture them if we can."

That was one of the objectives of the mission: take prisoners. Scientists aboard the _Pursuer_ and back at the Kryos Installation were eager to get their hands on one of these alternate humans, to determine how they differed from those populating the Empire, and perhaps to identify any strengths or weaknesses of strategic significance. Tykon had heard speculation that the people of this new galaxy were telepathic or that they were all Force-users, though he had seen no evidence to support that.

"Of course, sir." Caldar and a death trooper charged down the hallway, black shapes moving more quietly than they had any right to, while the third crouched behind a crate, ready to provide covering fire.

Five people burst into the corridor, not far in front of Caldar. Three men and two women. They were local police, perhaps, wearing bulky grey flak armor and wielding rifles, and each had a stylized dagger painted on the left shoulder, probably some sort of heraldic symbol. There were no visible augmentations, indicating that they were a class different from the cyborg priests.

Their leader shouted something unintelligible. No point in responding with anything but blaster bolts. The trooper who had stayed behind opened fire first, catching one in the stomach and forcing the others to shelter behind crates and in doorways, while the Caldar closed the distance. Tykon watched from the rear, occasionally sending off shots with his pistol whenever targets presented themselves. He would let the professionals do their work.

Caldar turned a corner, fearlessly, and gunned down one of the alternate humans with a swift burst. Pulsating red light reflected off the smooth surface of his armor, and he moved on to his next target. Across the corridor, one of the police caught a death trooper with a close-range hit from what looked to be a laser, marking the first Imperial casualty. Tykon frowned and blasted the culprit.

Two remained, against Tykon and two troopers, and the pressing question was how to take them alive.

"Close to melee range!" he shouted. "Disarm them if you can!"

Caldar bashed one man's face in with the stock of his blaster. That might have killed him, but at least it accomplished the goal of putting him out of action, and of intimidating his remaining ally. The last police officer dropped her weapon and threw up her hands.

"We got her, sir," Caldar said, prodding her towards Tykon. The other death trooper took her into custody while the lieutenant went back for the man he'd knocked out.

"Great," Tykon said. He glanced at the man Caldar had hit, who was now moaning on the ground with hands cupped around his battered face, and at the fallen death trooper, who did not stir. "Three dead and two captured, and all it cost us was one of the Empire's most elite soldiers. I expected better from you, lieutenant."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Hm. I'm sure you are." Tykon scrutinized the female prisoner. She looked like an ordinary human, like any resident of Coruscant or Corellia—save the uniform. Her hair was brown and there was a thick coating of grime on her cheeks. She had her hands clasped behind her head. Her eyes were closed, and she was muttering something—a prayer, perhaps?—while hanging around her neck was a double-headed eagle, cast in brass, a devotional icon if he ever saw one.

Tykon ripped the pendant off its chain and turned it over in his hands. Upon closer inspection, the eagle had certain irregularities—only one of its two heads had eyes, and the feet were subtly asymmetrical, one more angular than the other. Strange. The dual heads had to represent a dual power structure, some sort of spiritual or temporal alliance, and the angular foot called to mind the cyborg priests' implants. It was a shame he hadn't captured any of the cyborgs alive; they might have had much to say.

"We can't haul his body all the way back to the shuttle," Caldar told him, pointing at the dead trooper. "What should we do?"

"Take his gun and comms equipment, blow up the rest with a thermal detonator. Should keep the enemy from gathering anything useful."

"Right, sir." The lieutenant got to work programming a detonator for a delayed blast.

Tykon turned back to face the prisoner, and dangled her pendant a few inches from her face.

"What is it you people worship?" he asked, though of course she wouldn't understand. "What petty gods and monsters populate your collective psyche?"

Once the linguists cracked the alien language—and they were working on it now, up in orbit, analyzing thousands of hours of transmissions—she would be able to tell him.


	4. Interrogation

Author's Note: This week I'll be releasing two short chapters, as a bonus for my awesome readers. Thank you guys for sticking with my story!

Also, I'm looking for a few people to give me regular feedback on my chapters before I release them. It would be really helpful to have another pair of eyes on these. PM me for details, if you're interested.

**Aboard the **_**Pursuer**_**, 2.13 AVY:**

"What is your name?" one of them asked, the words translated into Low Gothic by some sort of automaton.

"Marisa Tsevic," she replied.

The automaton parroted her in another language. It was a fully artificial being, made from shining silver, its limbs segmented and its face dominated by enormous chrome bug-eyes. The closest thing she could relate it to was a servitor.

"Homeworld?"

"Mortias IV." The other officer nodded and took notes on a data-slate.

She sat in a small windowless cell, with a table and three chairs. There was a bucket in the corner, changed regularly, and meals were brought to her, bland packaged carbohydrates that nevertheless tasted much better than the hive fare she was used to. She was dressed in nondescript grey fatigues, her armor having been long ago confiscated.

"Occupation?"

"Enforcer."

"Describe the"—the automaton, standing beside the seated officers, slipped into gibberish for a bit; evidently the translation remained imperfect—"and culture of your"—more gibberish.

She shook her head. "What?"

They talked among themselves. She'd never heard anything like their language. She had never seen their uniforms before, either—they wore sleek grey tunics, with colored plaques on the breast, and they had streamlined caps with visors that bent over the forehead. It was a subdued style, not at all like the ostentation common among the officials and priests of the Imperium. Where were these people from? They looked human, but they could not be Imperial.

"Tell us about the deity you worship."

"Surely you already know."

One of the officers glared at her from beneath his visor. "Cooperate, please."

"The Emperor protects. He is the light and the truth, the guardian of us all, our savior from the forces of darkness." She paused, gave a glare of her own. "I demand to be returned to my home planet."

"Do you know where you are?"

"Some sort of spaceship. I saw it from the outside, in the shuttle. It's small."

"You are now 170 light-years away from your homeworld."

She just stared at them, uncomprehending. Marisa had never left the hive city, let alone the planet. Her world had been small, squalid, and quite normal up until a few days ago, when her squad had heard shooting near Substation Generator 33A, and she'd gone to investigate…

"You mean—?"

"You will never return to Mortias IV. You are now a prisoner of the Galactic Empire, and you will die in captivity." Abruptly, the officers stood. "We have done our job—our translation algorithm seems to work well enough. The major will be in to see you shortly."

They left, leaving the automaton to stand mutely opposite her. As the door opened she caught a glimpse of an armed guard, fully enclosed in rounded black and white armor, with a helmet that seemed molded into a perpetual frown. Was he human, too, or another robot? She couldn't tell.

Then the door shut again and she was alone, left with nothing but fear to pass the long hours. At least they hadn't manacled her to the chair. She was free to walk around the room, all ten square meters of it. The ship hummed around her, though it was much quieter than the hive city's ambience of groaning metal and rumbling machinery, and the air was fresh, without the familiar reek of sweat, promethium fumes, and human excrement.  
Surrendering had been a mistake. She should have fought to her last dying breath, like the brave fighters of the Arbites or the Guard. Had she done so, she would be with the Emperor at this very moment, welcomed into the host of the righteous at His side. Now… perhaps the Emperor would forgive her for her cowardice, but it might be a long time until she received the mercy of death.

Where would they start? Removing her teeth? Her fingernails? Or were these strangers' methods more subtle, using isolation and fear to press her mind until it finally cracked? They were certainly heretics—they knew not the name of the God-Emperor—so she could expect no mercy.

Marisa paced around the table and chairs in the center of the room. The automaton stood there, unmoving and unblinking, her only companion.

"What are you?" she asked. "Some sort of abominable intellect?"

No response.

"You are cursed in the Emperor's sight, whatever you are."

She punched it. Her hand connected with cold metal, painfully, and the robot staggered, reacting just enough to keep from falling over. She was happy to see that there was a slight dent in its face.

"Behave yourself," the automaton said, as she turned away. It caught her by surprise, causing her to jump a little, and she spun back around to deliver a second punch. This time she knocked it to the floor. She raised a foot to stomp down and crush its metal head, but before she attempted the killing blow, the door opened.

The man who walked in was the same one who had captured her. He was tall, with a sharp jawline and a growth of stubble on his face, and he wore a jet-black uniform, a double-breasted tunic with trousers that flared at the hip. When he spoke, the robot translated.

"Destroying Imperial property will not endear you to your captors," he said, flashing a disarming smile. "And trust me, you do very much want to be in our good graces. Your stay doesn't have to be this comfortable."

"Who in the Emperor's name are you people?"

"Visitors. Liberators, as I'm sure you will come to see. My name is Major Fren Tykon, Imperial Intelligence, and I'm in command of this little expedition. Sit down."

She sat. Tykon helped the automaton to its feet, then took a seat as well. He folded his arms and leaned forward over the table.

"To begin, Marisa, I'd like to—"

"How does your robot speak my language?" she asked.

Tykon looked askance at her, surprised she'd interrupted. He smirked. "We had a computer analyze transmissions from your planet. The men who saw you previously were linguists testing the model. It's imperfect, but it seems to work."

"Then what do you need me for? Nothing you can learn from me that you can't learn from a broadcast, if you've been eavesdropping on our communications."

"Ah. You're wrong about that. Most of what your planet puts out is propaganda—'Praise the Emperor' this, 'Purge the heretics' that—and I want another perspective."

"Then you've got the wrong person. I am a loyal believer in the Emperor, and you will not hear a whisper of heresy from my lips."

"Hm." He steepled his fingers, looked at her for a long second. "You know, we have an Emperor, too."

She scoffed. What madness was this? There could be only one Emperor, and that was Him.

"Your Emperor is false."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that. If I understand correctly, _your_ Emperor is immobile on your capital world—what's its name? Teran? Trantor?—"

"Terra."

"—and he has not moved or spoken in some time. How long, would you say?"

"It's been ten thousand years since He defeated the arch-traitor, Horus, and ascended to rule from the Golden Throne."

Tykon nodded. "Fascinating. A whole mythology, of which we're just barely beginning to scratch the surface. Please, tell me more."

"You're really not from around here, are you?"

"You'll soon see for yourself. We are nearing the recall point, and will be transiting in a few days."

"What does that mean?"

"That you will be a pioneer. The first person from your galaxy to travel to ours. Some of us wonder if you will survive the transition, but I'm sure you will—we made it over to _your_ galaxy just fine."

A chill ran through her.

"You're from outside the Milky Way?"

"'The Milky Way?' That's a silly name. But yes, we are, and you will be seeing much more of us in the years ahead, as we civilize your backwards Imperium. Which is why we need to find out all we can from you. I suggest you cooperate, or we will begin to use harsher methods." He leaned towards her again. "Your first task: tell me everything you know about the Imperium's military forces."

This was Marisa's chance. She had failed to die for the Emperor, back in the hive, but now she could become a true martyr. Suffering purified the soul. Once the torture was over, she would be hailed as a hero before the Golden Throne, and receive her eternal reward with a smile on her face.

"No."

Tykon smiled. "That's what I expected."

He raised a hand—was that a signal?—and the door behind him opened. Two white-armored figures entered, like the one she'd seen before. They were across the room in seconds, and though she fought, they quickly had her pinned against the wall, unable to move.

"The Emperor protects!" she shouted.

"I'm sure he does." Tykon stood and paced a meter in front of her, then called over his shoulder, "Bring it in."

The next thing through the doorway was another automaton. It was a black sphere, floating about a meter and a half off the ground, with a glowing red eye inset near the bottom and various silvery implements protruding around the upper half. A syringe jutted from its side, and it hummed like a servo skull.

For the briefest of moments she considered spilling what little she knew. But then she imagined the Emperor watching her, from high upon the Golden Throne of Terra, and resolved to embrace the pain to come.

Author's Note: Thanks for reading! Stay tuned for Chapter 5, in which we will be seeing more of Krennic.


	5. The Eight-Pointed Star

Author's Note: As promised, here is this week's second chapter of "False Imperium." A few of you have pointed out that I seem to be biased towards the Galactic Empire, and I'll admit that I am giving them some lucky breaks here and there, just so that it's not a one-sided battle. Rest assured, however, they will get their comeuppance, once the Imperium mobilizes against this latest threat. I am trying to be relatively objective.

* * *

**Kryos Installation, 2.14 AVY:**

Krennic was alone in his office, with the door shut and the lights dimmed. If anyone saw what he was looking at, it would make for some awkward questions.

The screen at his desk showed the last transmission of a probe droid, A-1750, one of several which had attempted to enter the vast pink-purple nebula only a few hundred light-years from the Kryos Installation's terminus. Few of the probes sent there had returned data, but A-1750 had. It had landed on a rocky world deep inside the nebula and beamed back a snippet shortly before going dark.

Its findings were… disturbing. He had hidden them from Lord Vader and all but a handful of analysts, and he planned to go on pretending that A-1750 had just vanished without a trace.

He played the file again:

There were human skins, hanging from hooks by the thousands, amid jagged outcrops of jet-black rock.

Lines of flayed, moaning people, kept alive and in agony by who knew what.

Tortured screams as bat-winged things stripped flesh.

A guttural voice chanting in an alien language.

An eight-pointed star, a dozen meters wide, cast in iron and dripping with blood and jutting from the tallest outcrop like some gruesome monument to primitive gods.

It wasn't likely that the probe had randomly come down in the middle of a slaughterhouse—_most of the planet_ had to be like this. A menagerie of horrors.

"Director Krennic?" said a voice over the intercom. Krennic glanced instinctively around his empty office, and shut off the screen. He pressed a key on his desk with a gloved finger.

"Yes?"

"The _Pursuer_ has arrived at the recall point, sir." It was Lieutenant Commander Greaves, presently overseeing the installation's command center. "Shall we bring them across?"

"About time," he muttered, then said to the lieutenant commander, "Yes, immediately. Inform Major Tykon and Captain Brigain that they are to meet me in Hangar Three for a full debriefing."

"At once, sir."

"Very good. Krennic out."

He stood and made for the door, sparing one last glance for the screen that had so recently shown a vista of horror. The Kryos Installation had been at full charge for seventy-seven hours, ready to pull the _Pursuer_ back home, but the problem was that the ship hadn't shown up on time, and the portal's sensors—able to detect vessels at the terminus, in the other galaxy—hadn't picked up a soul on the other side. Until now.

The door slid open and he walked out into the corridor. It was wide, as the Imperial style dictated, and every few meters a vertical strip of lights provided steady, sterile illumination. Not far down the hallway was Captain Enric Pryde, clutching a datapad.

"There you are, sir! I was just about to give my report."

"Walk with me, I'm in a hurry," Krennic said. Pryde fell into step beside him. "What is it?"

"The first draft of Operation Falcon, sir."

"Excellent." They turned a corner and passed a pair of stormtroopers. "How many targets?"

"At least sixteen. Most haven't been identified yet, we are waiting on the next round of probes." Pryde handed him the datapad. Krennic looked it over while he walked, keeping one eye on the hallway so that he didn't trip over a mouse droid or something.

"Population centers, military garrisons, storage depots…" Krennic read off the list of target categories, well aware that most of them were, at this stage, hypothetical. "'Religious targets?'"

"Yes, sir. The proliferation of iconography and apparent cathedrals suggests a highly devout society. Final confirmation, of course, will come from the _Pursuer_'s findings, but I felt that to be a classification worth including."

"Still don't see why you'd single out cathedrals, when we're talking about indiscriminate bombardment of entire planets."

Pryde furrowed his brow. "Oh, no, sir. My assumption was that an empire of this scale would have worlds wholly dedicated to religious functions."

"Absurd. No civilization would waste resources on something like that."

A KX-series enforcer droid strode by, a tall and long-limbed black figure.

"These natives appear to be technologically advanced but culturally primitive, sir. They likely have a different value system than we do. I believe we can damage their morale by destroying sites they consider holy—like we did against the barbarians of Durivic, when we obliterated their Soul Temple."

"The Durivites still trouble the Empire, captain, as tenaciously as they ever did."

"Well, yes… I suppose they do. Bad example."

"I want you to focus on targets of strictly military and economic importance, for now. But I commend your imagination."

"Very well, sir. And thank you."

Krennic scanned through the report, picking out the most prominent lines of text. "Another thing: this assumes twenty-three _Imperial_-class Star Destroyers."

"Yes it does, sir. Was my assumption off?"

"_Judgment_ suffers from engine troubles, and two others are waylaid on a pacification mission in the Outer Rim. We'll have to make do with twenty."

"I'll make adjustments right away."

The Kryos Installation began to hum around them—that was it returning the _Pursuer_ from the other universe. Pulling a ship back was a somewhat faster process than sending one out.

"Sounds like our ship is finally coming home," Pryde said.

"Indeed; I'm on my way to meet them." Krennic returned the datapad. "Operation Falcon looks promising, captain. Keep working on it."

"Yes, sir." The captain nodded and left. Krennic continued walking, his hands clasped behind his flowing white cape.

Twenty minutes later he arrived at Hangar Three. The two personnel from the _Pursuer_ had beaten him there, much to his chagrin, and he found them standing out on the polished black floor of the hangar, next to the shuttle they'd arrived in. It was a _Lambda_-C, wings shortened to fit inside a ship as small as the _Pursuer_. As a result it had a stubby and dwarfish look to it.

"Captain, major," he said, waving. "Welcome back to the Empire!"

"It's good to be back," Brigain said. He was a stocky man, with rounded cheeks and a slight paunch. As a captain, he would normally command a Star Destroyer rather than a mere corvette, but Krennic had wanted somebody experienced to lead the _Pursuer_ on its first extragalactic mission.

"Thank you, director," said Tykon. There was a small splotch of blood, probably not his, on the left sleeve of his tunic. Unprofessional, but perhaps he'd just been working on someone. His official title, "cultural analyst," didn't describe half of what he did.

"I'm sure you've picked up many _fascinating_ stories from the natives." Krennic gestured towards the nearest door, and started walking. "Let's discuss."

Tykon fell into place on Krennic's right-hand side, beating the captain to it, and Brigain had to settle for the left. Side by side the three of them made a spectrum of black, white, and grey, a small cross-section of the Imperial bureaucracy.

"How hard was it finding the planet?" Krennic asked.

"Harder than we expected," Brigain said. "The probe only partially mapped the hyperspace route. And…"

"And what, captain?"

The doorway slid open ahead of them, and they walked into the long hallway beyond.

"Our navigational shields were unusually strained during the passage through hyperspace. As if something were trying to get in."

"Director Krennic," Tykon cut in, "the captain and I have discussed this. I maintain that it was nothing more than a quirk of hyperspace phys—"

"That's not what it was, dammit!" Brigain shot a glare past Krennic at the intelligence officer. "This thing was _intelligent_, it targeted the weak points in our shields and caused power fluctuations like nothing I've ever seen. And it gets worse. A crewman went insane during the voyage, not long after we transited, and we had to shut him in a storage locker to keep him from killing his bunkmate. When we opened it up again... it was a grisly sight."

Krennic raised an eyebrow. He remembered that monstrous vista the probe droid had beamed back, the flayed skins and the eight-pointed star, and for a moment he didn't doubt that other, even worse things existed on the far side of the portal. Then he got a hold of himself; fear of the unknown was the domain of savages and mystics, not men of the Empire.

"It was a classic case of space psychosis," Tykon said. "Brigain is being superstitious."

The captain stopped in his tracks, and pointed a finger at Tykon. "Space psychosis doesn't make men tear out their own eyes, major!"

Krennic raised his hands. "Gentlemen, please control yourselves. I'll have scientists look into what happened and see if they can find an explanation. Now, tell me about the planet."

Tykon spoke, while Brigain fumed. "They call it Mortias IV. Hive world. Most of the surface is a toxic wasteland, dominated by a few vast, dilapidated arcologies. We estimate fifty-five billion inhabitants, low end."

"Fifty billion? Incredible." It did not come close to Coruscant, of course, but it outclassed nearly any other planet in the Galaxy. "Must be their capital, or close to it."

Tykon shook his head. "Their capital is a planet called Terra. Another hive world, it seems, where according to legend their God-Emperor sits upon the Golden Throne and rules the Imperium of Man."

They reached the debriefing room, a large chamber, trapezoidal in cross-section, with a steel table flanked by several chairs. A window looked out over the center of the Kryos Installation. Krennic shut the door behind them, and they took seats.

"Tell me about this Emperor. Is it a hereditary title? Is he a genuine ruler, or a mere figurehead?"

"According to their propaganda there has only been one Emperor for the past ten thousand years, during which he has not moved or spoken to his subjects. We have every reason to believe that he does not really exist."

"I see. You determined all of this from intercepted broadcasts?"

"And from a prisoner."

"A prisoner? Now things are getting interesting."

"We found her during a raid on one of the hive cities." Tykon paused, pensive for a second. "Actually, we took two prisoners, a male and a female, both local police, but the male died of a brain hemorrhage inflicted during capture. The female is our primary information source, and an uncooperative one at that. She required the use of an interrogator droid."

Krennic interlaced his fingers in front of him, and leaned back. "What did she tell you?"

"These people are fanatically devoted to their Emperor, sir. It is a cult more widespread than anything we've ever seen—the entire society is organized around worshiping and fighting for this one, solitary deity, who was interred upon the Golden Throne during a mythical conflict ten thousand years ago."

Ten thousand years. A long time, to be sure—longer than the Republic had been around.

"How much would you wager that the Golden Throne is empty, and this Imperium of theirs is actually run by a cabal of fabulously wealthy priests?" Brigain said.

"It's either empty, or there's a rotting corpse sitting on it," Krennic said. "Now, how about the military situation? What have you found out?"

"Well, there's only so much a policewoman is going to know." Krennic nodded, conceding the point, and Tykon went on, "However, between her and the broadcasts, I was able to determine that the Imperium has a diverse military, comprising a regular army and navy as well as a host of religious orders, militias, and elite forces. Most are deployed in a bitter struggle against what they term 'heretics and xenos.'"

"Xenos?"

"Aliens, sir. They kill them on sight."

"I see they, too, recognize the supremacy of the human race." Krennic grinned. "Though perhaps they go too far."

The Empire would have to educate the people of the Imperium on how to properly utilize the subservient races. The Death Star, for instance, could not have succeeded without Wookiee slave labor, hundreds of thousands of aliens plucked from their treehouses and put to useful work. Their sacrifice had made possible the greatest instrument of peace in galactic history—which Tarkin had then stolen from him. Krennic would be damned if the Grand Moff ever got so much as a toehold in the new universe.

"I'd like to know more about these elite forces, major," he said.

"Of course, sir." Tykon shifted in his seat. "The Imperium fields super-soldiers known as the Adeptus Astartes, or Space Marines. They're… well, all sorts of fantastic abilities are attributed to them. My prisoner said they're more than two and a half meters tall, they wear impenetrable armor that can shrug off tank shells, they dive from orbit to smite the Emperor's foes… the list goes on. I would liken them to many primitive mythologies' ideas of angels."

"Do we have any evidence that these Astartes actually exist?"

"Nothing conclusive. The broadcasts mentioned them, but we saw no images in the few video transmissions we picked up. They might just be propaganda devised to prop up a failing regime."

"I see." Krennic certainly hoped they were a myth, or at the least wildly exaggerated; the nagging voice in the back of his mind kept asking if he was perhaps biting off more than he could chew. He looked down at the table, then returned his gaze to Tykon. "What would you say is the overall condition of the Imperium, major? Can it fight?"

"They do little besides fighting. On the other hand, sir, the hive city I visited was falling apart. The people inside were starving and brainwashed. This Imperium cannot provide for its citizens, it cannot put a lid on internal rebellion, and it cannot defeat its external enemies."

"It may well be stretched to the breaking point," Brigain cut in, "ripe for another power to push it towards collapse."

"So we only have to kick in the door, and the whole rotten structure will come crashing down," said Krennic. He stood from his seat, and reached across the table to shake hands with both men. "You each have done an admirable job for the Empire. Captain, I would like you to take _Pursuer_ back through the portal—after rest and refurbishment, of course—and map hyperspace routes."

Brigain nodded stiffly, as if he didn't really want to go back. Too bad for him. Krennic went on, "Major, once you've reported back to Imperial Intelligence, I want you to begin organizing a diplomatic staff."  
"Diplomatic staff, sir?"

Krennic grinned. "Well, we're going to need someone to negotiate the Imperium's terms of surrender, aren't we?"

Tykon returned the smile. "Of course."

"There may also be disgruntled elements in the Imperium we can sway to our side. Not everyone can be a fanatic, after all. Any further points you would like to make?"

"No, sir," Tykon said. Brigain shook his head.

"Very well. You're dismissed."

The captain and the major made for the door. Just as Tykon was about to leave, Krennic spoke up:

"And, major?"

Tykon turned. "Yes, sir?"

"During your expedition, did you ever come across a symbol that looked like an eight-pointed star?"

"Could you describe in more detail?"

He _could_; that wickedly pointed iron star was burned into his memory. "I'm talking about a circle, with eight irregular arrows crossing its perimeter, pointing outwards. Seen anything like it?"

"I encountered nothing of the sort. Why?"

"Never mind that. You're dismissed, major."

Tykon departed with a curt nod. Krennic meanwhile, turned and looked out the room's sole window. The view from here was much like that from the command center; there was the dull grey band of the particle accelerator ring, forming an artificial horizon, while a host of ships loitered nearby, white-hulled Star Destroyers and cruisers and various service vessels. The panoply of Imperial power, soon to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting galaxy.

* * *

Author's Note: Thanks for reading! Next week, stay tuned for some stuff blowing up, as well as the introduction of a very important character. Also expect a "Gifts of the Blood God" update in the near future, if any of you are following that.


	6. Operation Falcon

Author's Note: Here's this week's chapter, and my first attempt to do space combat in this story. I hope you like it!

* * *

**Orbit around Ophidia, 2.21 AVY:**

Flight Lieutenant Luke Skywalker dove towards his target, laser cannons blazing, bolts of energy converging in front of him on an enemy point defense battery. He veered his TIE fighter upwards just in time to avoid the fireball; that gun turret wouldn't trouble the Empire any longer. Pieces of debris tumbled through space, along with clouds of gas and what may have been the bodies of alternate humans.

"Beta Two, Beta Three, you still following?" he asked over the squadron net, as he banked around.

"Affirmative."

"Roger, sir."

"Great. Keep with me, and we'll destroy the next gun."

No casualties yet in his flight of three ships. Fifth Squadron as a whole had only lost one fighter, out of a force of twelve, but the wing's standard TIEs—slow, graceless, and undergunned compared to the more elite Interceptors—were suffering heavily. As he swung around for another attack run, he saw a TIE caught in the red beam of a laser; one of its hexagonal solar arrays sheared off, sending sparks flying, and the craft spun out of control, its journey culminating in a fiery explosion on the side of the hostile space station.

The battle was between the strike craft wing of the Star Destroyer _Steadfast_ and an orbital defense platform. Seventy-two fighters, bombers, and interceptors against one fortress half a kilometer across, with the guns of the _Steadfast_ providing covering fire even as they bombarded the planet below. There were other Star Destroyers in this fight, of course, and other defense platforms, but Luke had not earned the rank of Flight Lieutenant by worrying outside his purview.

He completed his loop through space and headed back towards the station. It comprised two square slabs of ornate metal, with a narrower neck between them, and it bristled with weapons, some designed to take on capital ships and some, much smaller, intended for fighter craft. Gothic arches and decorative gargoyles abounded, lending the structure the air of some alien temple more than anything else. These people had a strange taste in architecture.

Beneath it, the planet was a vast blue, green, and tan sphere, speckled with clouds and blurring around the edges with atmospheric haze. Flashes of light and concomitant shockwaves spread across its surface as twenty Imperial ships rained down turbolaser fire.

Three TIE Interceptors hurtled past him, bound for one of the gun emplacements on the top of the station. There were fourteen anti-starfighter turrets on the upper level and sixteen on the lower; these, comprising both projectile and laser weapons, had to be taken out before the more vulnerable TIE/sa bombers could close in.

A near-blinding column of light streaked from the platform, aimed towards the _Steadfast_. Some sort of laser. Hopefully the shields would handle it, or Luke would have to find a different hangar to land in.

"Status, Beta One?" radioed Sal Yurvel, his squadron leader, in one of the TIE/INs that had just flown by.

"Alpha One, my fighters and I have taken out one of the lower gun emplacements. We're heading back in to engage."

His helmet was stuffy and entirely too warm, but he couldn't remove it. The cockpit around him was depressurized, to save flight mass, and was no different from the vacuum of space.

"We'll have cleared the way for the bombers in no time. Keep up the good work!"

"Sure thing, Alpha One."

He approached the next gun turret. It was small, at least compared to the size of the station, and lightly armored—the combined firepower of three TIE/INs made short work of it. Lashing flames leapt out and grazed the wings of his interceptor as he banked away.

On the way out, Luke sensed danger. He wasn't sure how, but he followed his instincts and swerved to the right, only for a flash of light to erupt on his left. Around where he would have been.

"Beta Two and Beta Three, sound off," he said.

"Beta Two, reporting."

That was all he heard.

"Beta Three?" His hands sweated within sealed gloves. The pilot of Beta Three was Wes Hernano, and regardless of the Imperial dogma—pilots were expendable, casualties inevitable—Luke didn't want to be the one to tell the rest of the squadron that Wes was dead.

"Beta Three, do you read?"

Not a sound. At this rate the Empire would lose some of its best airmen, and for what? The planet down below wouldn't be of any use to anyone after this battle was over.

"Sir, I still see him," radioed Beta Two, real name Murkel. "Check your radar."

The radar display was up and on the left. There were still two ships following him, maintaining almost perfect formation, with a TIE Interceptor sitting exactly where Wes was supposed to be.

"His radio's out!" Luke exclaimed. He thumped a fist against the side of the cockpit. "That bastard's still alive!"

"Could you repeat, Beta One?" said Sal.

"Sorry, sir. Just got excited."

"Try not to be." As Luke turned into his third attack run, he saw Alpha One and his accompanying fighters engaging one of the station's larger, anti-capital-ship batteries, to little effect. Apparently they were running thin on targets. "We're almost done here, Beta One. Gamma and Delta Flights, engage the last remaining bombers. Beta Flight, fall back and escort the incoming bombers."

Gamma One and Delta One radioed swift affirmatives. Luke frowned, wondering how it could possibly be fair that _he_ was the one assigned to escort duty. But he knew better than to complain to his superior during a battle.

"Copy that, Alpha One. All right, people, you heard the squadron leader: form up behind me. We're going to screen the bombers." Against what, he did not know. The enemy had not deployed any starfighters yet, though he wished they had—then this would be a proper battle.

"One question for you, Beta One," said Murkel. Wes was still silent, though he remained close behind Luke and could evidently hear orders.

"Ask away," Luke said.

"You dodged that laser beam before it fired. How did you see it coming?"

That was a good question. Luke didn't know the answer, himself. "Just a hunch, I guess."

"Keep it up, and you might survive this war." Murkel chuckled. "Can't say that for the rest of us."

"There's always a war going on, somewhere. I wouldn't be so sure of my chances."

Twelve bombers were up ahead, arranged in four parallel groups ahead of the looming _Steadfast_. They were a double-hulled design, with separate modules for pilots and payloads, and their collector panels bent inwards, much like the wings of his own TIE/IN.

Now that the platform's anti-fighter weapons were all but neutralized, he could afford to let his mind wander a little. Murkel was right. Luke had an unnatural talent for flying, a certain agility and precognition he didn't understand. It had been evident in his T-16 skyhopper back home on Tatooine, and in the simulators, and finally in the TIE Interceptor he now flew through an alien galaxy. Ultimately it was what had landed him the rank of flight lieutenant fresh out of the Academy. Even though he knew Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru had disapproved of his joining the Empire, he hoped they'd be proud if they knew how far he'd come.

**Aboard the **_**Steadfast**_**, 2.21 AVY:**

One _Imperial_-class Star Destroyer could level a planet. Twenty of them was overkill. Captain Pryde looked out through an arc of trapezoidal windows, his arms folded in front of him, and watched as his ship and others laid waste to a world of the Imperium.

"It's beautiful," he said. The ship was angled directly towards the target so that the entire main battery could fire. Bolts of green energy rained down onto the surface like hailstones, detonating on impact, boiling seas and melting the crust down to a depth of several kilometers. Nothing would survive. A quarter of the planet's surface was already magma, and most of the rest was covered by swirling clouds of vapor and atomized rock.

"I said the same thing at Jedha," said Director Krennic, standing beside him on the walkway in the center of the bridge. To either side, recessed pits held various officers going about their duties, oblivious to the magnificent sight just a meter above their heads.

"Sir?"

"It was not long before the Victory at Yavin." Krennic's blue eyes were fixed on some point far, far in the distance, perhaps beyond the planet. "The first live-fire test of the Death Star. I wanted to destroy the entire world, but Governor Tarkin doubted the power of the weapon I had created, and he ordered only a single reactor ignition. Just enough to obliterate their Holy City. It was very much like this, except it took only a single shot."

Pryde knew of the rivalry between Krennic and Tarkin. He also knew that it was a sensitive subject for the director, so he had to tread carefully.

"Odd that he held you back, sir. The Death Star has been used at full power countless times."

"Yavin IV, Alderaan, Quarzite, Metellos… he had no qualms using the Death Star's full potential after he was in command of it. But it was _my_ achievement. Not his."

The captain nodded. "Surely the Emperor will reward you well for this latest conquest."

"He had better. I've come too far, and I won't stand to be in the shadows any longer while Tarkin takes all the glory."

Pryde didn't mention that he had doubts about the whole venture. This world, Ophidia, the first they had visited, was putting up stiff resistance. Batteries in orbit and on the surface had already damaged _Merciless_ and _Terror_. The new universe was unlikely to yield quick victory, especially if some of the legends—xenos, Titans, the Angels of Death—were true.

The _Steadfast_ shook under their feet. Another hit from the orbital defenses. The Star Destroyer's entire TIE wing was out there, engaging the batteries, trying to whittle them down so that the main guns could focus more on bombardment, but that meant there were a few points of resistance standing which might otherwise have been space dust.

"Shield status?" Pryde asked.

"Holding, sir," reported an officer from down below, braced against a wall. Pryde and Krennic had no such support. If another blast rocked the ship, it would be embarrassing to fall over in front of the men.

"Sir," said another lieutenant, from a console near the back of the bridge, "Our bombers have neutralized the nearest defense platforms. All major and minor weapons emplacements have been taken out."

"Very good. Move on to the next."

"The next is on the other side of the planet, sir, and _Terror_ is already engaging it. Do we want to send our fighters that far afield?"

"Hm. Good point." Ophidia was all but defenceless, now—they could easily hover here unmolested for another hour, raining a hail of devastation, and then their work would be done. Another Base Delta Zero for the Empire. "Have the Interceptors mount patrols, bring the other craft back to the hangar."

"Right away, sir."

"Well, director"—he turned back towards Krennic—"looks like we've broken them. Even with the amount we've already bombarded, shockwaves, tsunamis, and earthquakes will have taken out most of the remaining cities."

Analysts had estimated a population of 6.7 billion, based off of probe data. Their deaths were a necessary sacrifice. The Empire maintained its rule through fear, and fear was instilled in subject peoples—or soon-to-be-subject peoples—by demonstrations of strength.

"Let us hope the next fifteen targets prove about as easy," Krennic said. "This shall be only our opening salvo, Captain Pride. Imagine what we'll be able to accomplish once we have a hundred Star Destroyers through the portal? A thousand?"

"Indeed, sir."

The turbolaser bolts continued to rain down, and they burst among clouds of ash.

* * *

Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Next week, tune in for some starfighter action, and the introduction of the Adepta Sororitas! Also, stay on the lookout for a new "Gifts of the Blood God" chapter; I'll write it when I have time.


	7. Takeoff

Author's Note: Hello, all! There's been some restructuring in my outline, so things will be a little different than I anticipated. For one thing, I'm breaking the big battle chapter up into smaller pieces-you can expect the battle itself in Chapter 8, to be posted 3-5 days from now-and for another, I will introduce the Sisters of Battle somewhat later, to make the plot flow better. Anyway, rest assured that this short chapter will be followed by a longer one. Enjoy!

* * *

**Aboard the **_**Steadfast**_**, 2.21 AVY:**

Hyperspace looked different in this universe. Luke was used to a swirling blue tunnel, a bright light dead ahead, lighter and darker patches streaking calmly past like foam on a stream. He'd seen it through countless starship windows since leaving Tatooine, and he had assumed that it would be the same in a new galaxy. Here, though, hyperspace was tinted purple, not blue, and the normally innocent patterns bulged and slithered like writing serpents, leaving him with an impression of something deeply… unwholesome. He stared at it for a few seconds, then turned from the window. He had an awful headache.

"I don't know about you, but the sooner we drop back into realspace, the better," Luke told the rest of his squadron, clustered around a few tables in the ready room. There were eleven of them, all told—they'd lost one, Javier, over Ophidia—and while casualties were par for the course in the Emperor's service, it did put a sombre tint on things.

"Tell me about it," said Mara Aurelian, one of a handful of women in the _Steadfast_'s TIE wing, and one of two in the Interceptor squadron. Luke rather fancied her, but he hadn't yet worked up the courage to do anything about it. "I haven't been able to sleep right."

"You never do," said Wes Hernano, who had his arm wrapped around the other female pilot, Octavia Redheth. Everyone knew they were an item, and the squadron leader turned a blind eye to it. "Remember three weeks ago, when you missed a night's sleep and had to sit out the next day's flight? We got a reprimand for that."

"But this is different."

"I think she's right," Luke spoke up. "I've had some odd dreams, myself."

He and the rest of the squadron had only gotten six hours of rest in the day since they'd transited, most of the rest of their time spent debriefing or flying sorties in support of Operation Falcon. Of those six hours Luke had probably slept for three. The fragments he recalled…

Visions of a figure in black armor. A blood-red sky streaked with smoke. Stone towers, impossibly tall, with flying buttresses arranged haphazardly around them like monstrous legs. A symbol like a wheel, with eight points.

"Me, too," said Vri Cambran, leader of Gamma Flight. "I take it I'm not the only one who gets the creeps from this place."

Octavia gestured towards the swirling lights of hyperspace. "Just look out the window, Vri. That's enough to give anyone the creeps."

Without warning, the klaxon over the door started blaring. Luke jumped, Mara glanced from side to side, Wes pulled his arm back from around his girlfriend—they all knew what the noise meant.

"Fifth Squadron, report to your fighters," announced a voice over the intercom. "Fifth Squadron, report to your fighters. We will be exiting hyperspace in ten minutes."

"All right, people, no more chitchat," said the squadron leader, Sal Yurvel. "The Empire needs us. Let's go!"

Everyone was already suited up—minus their helmets, which hung on a rack on the far wall. Luke rushed to grab one, then followed Sal through the door and into the corridor beyond. The squadron proceeded together at a quick trot, two abreast, helmets hanging by their sides, and despite the squadron leader's order they spoke excitedly amongst themselves.

"I hope we get to face starfighters," Luke said.

"Careful what you wish for," said Murkel. "Who's to say whether our fighters are better than theirs?"

"We took on two cruisers, at that last planet. They didn't put up too much of a fight."

"That's because they were outnumbered ten to one."

Luke remembered the ships: bulky things, as long as an Imperial Star Destroyer but much thicker, with enormous pointed prows and conning towers along the centerline. Despite their numerical inferiority, they had managed to nearly cripple the _Torment_ before going down. It _had_ been a battle, technically, but Luke hadn't had anything to do but fly around and engage point defense batteries, much as he had over Ophidia and other worlds. Perhaps this time would be different.

"Any bets on who will get the most kills?" Wes said.

"Come on, that's not fair," replied Octavia. "It's always Skywalker!"

Luke shrugged. Mara looked over her shoulder at him. Interest, perhaps? Or was he reading too much into it?

The ready room was not far from the hangar, where the starfighter wing awaited launch. On the way there Luke spotted other groups of pilots, for standard TIEs and bombers alike, hurrying along in groups of nominally twelve—though everyone had taken some casualties. The _Steadfast_ probably had about fifty or sixty craft still in working order. How many it would carry back home would depend on how stiff enemy resistance was, and how effectively Luke and his comrades fought.

They reached the hangar. A pair of naval troopers waved them through, only making a cursory inspection of Sal's security clearance.

"All right, everyone!" Sal said, as they emerged from the last corridor onto a network of catwalks over a wide, sterile space. Below were the transfer carrier tracks, which returned fighters from the landing bay to the launch bay, and ahead, by the doors, were rows of TIEs suspended from overhead cradles. "I will give you more detailed orders once we're in the air and able to assess the situation. Before then, be ready to launch the moment this ship drops from hyperspace. Fly safe!"

He was met by nods and affirmatives. Luke ran down the catwalk to his assigned hangar, Bay Three, marked by a painted numeral on the bulkhead separating it from Bay Four. Wes and Murkel followed close behind; while the squadron was dispersed throughout several hangars, so that one lucky hit or accident didn't destroy their whole unit, Luke and the two pilots under his command always launched together.

He found his assigned fighter nestled between two other Interceptors. Markings on the starboard solar collector identified it as serial number 081-A-3. Last mission he had flown 086-B-1, and before that 031-H-7; the Empire discouraged its pilots from getting too attached to any one ship, which was a real shame, because if anybody let him he was sure he could make some useful modifications.

"Good luck out there," he told Wes. "Make sure your radio works this time."

"Of course, Luke. _You_ make sure not to hog all the kills."

Luke smiled, then put on his helmet. A green light flashed in the corner of his vision to indicate that the seals were tight and oxygen was flowing. He turned, put his foot on the top rung of the ladder, and climbed down into the open hatch of his TIE, dropping the last meter or so into the pilot's seat.

A flip of an overhead switch activated the cockpit instrumentation. A few more switches turned on main power, started the ion engine, and booted the targeting computer. The vehicle came to life, its familiar sounds and glowing readouts identical to those of any other Interceptor. A quick glance around the control panels showed that everything was nominal; the maintenance crews had kept this ship in perfect shape.

He felt a slight tug of deceleration, pulling him to the side. The TIE swung a few degrees in its cradle. That was the _Steadfast_ dropping out of hyperspace, near the enemy world of Graval Prime—and it was also a signal that takeoff was only seconds away.

Sal's voice came through the squadron comlink: "All right, Squadron Five, we're there. Hangar control says we're go for takeoff."

The launch door slid open directly ahead. There was a metallic clunk as the craft nearest to it, Wes Hernano's, dropped from its cradle, followed by the scream of an ion drive as he piloted it out of the hangar, quickly veering out of sight.

"Beta Three, off and away," Wes radioed.

Luke was next. The conveyor advanced, moving his craft towards the yawning gulf of the hangar bay. The main doors were open and he could just barely see the bright blue curve of the planet below. He gunned up the engines, causing his TIE to strain forward, and then the clamps released, freeing him to hurtle across the hangar. He pitched down just before he impacted the far side.

"Beta One, off and away," he reported.

There was a brief hiss as the TIE vented air into space—it was that much less mass to push around, and it also removed the risk of explosive decompression. Luke was now in a vacuum and taking off his helmet would kill him.

He found Beta Three ahead of the _Steadfast_, some hundreds of meters to starboard. Additional TIEs from the line and bomber squadrons were already out, too—and that was to say nothing of the swarms emerging from the other Star Destroyers, which would demonstrate the might of the Empire by filling this planet's sky.

"Beta Two, off and away," Murkel said, swooping down behind him.

"Roger that," Luke said, "Let's follow the squadron leader."

His flight was out and ready to hunt. He saw an Interceptor hurtle past him, which a glance at the radar display revealed to be Mara in Delta One, and much further afield, as well as dead ahead, he spotted starships of Imperium manufacture. Gothic spires and armored prows dominated their architecture. There was one larger craft—very large, actually, it had to be more than five kilometers long—and six like the cruisers he'd seen earlier. They hovered near the planet, in low orbit, the size of a little fingernail at arm's length. A fleet caught unprepared.

"Squadron Five, form up on my position," radioed Sal. "Looks like we've found our opposition."

"Affirmative, Alpha One." Luke picked out Sal's fighter, moved into his place in a V-formation, and accelerated towards the enemy ships. Turbolaser bolts streaked out over his head. Some rained down on the planet, some were directed towards the hostile contacts, and he watched them blossom into rings of purple energy as they impacted the enemy's shields, dispersing like ripples in a pond. No visible damage, yet.

The battle had begun.

* * *

Author's Note: Next time, I'll deliver the starfighter action I've promised, with Imperial TIEs facing Imperial Fury Interceptors. Stay tuned! Also, I highly recommend the book Star Wars: Incredible Cross-Sections as well as OtaKing77077's TIE Fighter short film (available on YouTube). They were both invaluable resources for researching this story.


	8. The Savage Void

Author's Note: Sorry for the slight delay with this one! Hopefully all the action will make up for it. Enjoy!

* * *

**Aboard the **_**Marauder**_**, 2.21 AVY:**

"Twenty contacts, my lord," said the lieutenant at the augur station. He glanced at his screen again. "More. They've launched fighters."

Commodore Niran Lepidus looked out through the armorcrys viewport at these new arrivals—white and grey ships, wedge-shaped, with wide control towers and bristling turrets firing a hail of green bolts—and scowled. Graval Prime was supposed to be a rest stop. His ships were undermanned, and the press gangs sent planetside hadn't yet managed to make up the difference.

"Not any kind of vessel I've ever seen before," said the commissar, Grissom, standing with the commodore on the command platform. Behind them, a raised level held more bridge officers, and ahead was Captain Percival's throne, from which he ruled the whole ship. "Not ours. Not Chaos. Not Eldar, Tyranid, or even T'au."

Grissom was an ancient man, visibly sixty with a lifetime extended far beyond that by juvenat treatments. Rumor had it his father had been a veteran of the Macharian Crusade, more than four hundred years in the past, but Lepidus doubted that story—even the Imperium's best medicine could only go so far.

"Yes, commissar, I'm sure you've seen quite a few, in your day," Lepidus said. Then, to the captain: "Bring us broadside. I want macro-cannons firing and fighters in the air. The escorts are to screen against their fighter craft and fire broadsides, but have _Furious_ and _Undying Resolve_ bring their lances to bear. Let's go!"

His fleet—one _Exorcist_-class grand cruiser, the _Marauder_, escorted by two _Firestorm_ lance frigates and two _Claymore_ corvettes—was a far cry from the pinnacle of Imperial power, but still a respectable fighting force in its own right, capable of beating back the Chaos raiders and rebel militias that occasionally made trouble around this part of the galaxy. Whether it could take on these twenty strange ships was yet to be determined.

The _Marauder_ made a hard turn to starboard, forcing him to grab hold of a handrail on the command platform. His flagship rumbled beneath his feet as void shields absorbed incoming fire. A handful of readouts switched from green to yellow or red.

"Shield status?" asked Captain Percival, seated in a throne near the front of the bridge.

"Void shields at seventy-five percent and dropping," a servitor said, its voice monotone. Its organic parts comprised a torso, arms, and some fraction of a head, affixed permanently to its nest-like console. When it stirred it was with quick, jerky motions.

The ship was now oriented straight towards Graval Prime, broadside cannons brought to bear. It was still possible to see the enemy vessels through the bridge's side windows.

"Macro-cannons are ready and loaded, sir," reported an officer. That was fast, especially for an undermanned crew; someone down belowdecks had to be driving the indentured workers hard.

Percival glanced at Lepidus.

"Excellent," the commodore said. "Open fire."

**Aboard the **_**Steadfast**_**, 2.21 AVY:**

Captain Pryde watched shots dissipate against the shields of the enemy battleship, doing not an iota of visible damage. Even the cruisers appeared unharmed. The hope had been that, despite the great size of these alternate vessels, their weapons and defenses would be so flimsy that they folded immediately once they were pitted against the might of the Galactic Empire. Krennic had come to that conclusion. Pryde had had his doubts, which were now being vindicated.

"Intensify our firepower," Krennic ordered, standing beside Pryde near the front of the bridge. "I want every shot targeted against that battleship. If we bring it down, the rest will follow."

"Relaying, sir," said an officer, running his message back to the communications console. Under normal circumstances there would be an actual admiral leading this operation, not a project director like Krennic, but Krennic had not let any of the Galactic Empire's military commanders within sniffing distance of Operation Falcon, and so he was in charge of this first expedition through the portal. Pryde hoped the man would pull through, even though he hadn't so much as commanded a starship.

His handling of the battle looked promising so far. The Imperial fleet was organized into three wedge formations, arranged in turn into a larger wedge—a classic attack pattern, like a fractal triangle, allowing for overlapping firing arcs..

"Sir, the enemy flagship has opened fire," reported an officer. From the sunken control pit he could only see that through his sensors, while Pryde, up top, watched the event as it happened. Flame erupted from the battleship's row of gun barrels; almost immediately afterwards, detonations occurred against the shields of Krennic's Star Destroyers.

"Sir, _Terror_, _Victorious_, and _Discipline_ are reporting heavy damage!" another officer announced.

"Full power to particle shields!" Pryde turned to face Krennic, and spoke quietly—lest he discourage the men. "Sir, these are projectile weapons. Our shields are not designed to handle—"

Krennic cut him off. "It will be all right, captain. Keep returning fire."

A shell struck the _Steadfast_. Unlike ray shields, particle shields were embedded within the hull, and it was usually not easy to see them do their work. Nevertheless, it was clear that this time the shields were overwhelmed; the shot blasted away a section of the ship's dorsal side, roughly above the hangar and just ahead of the superstructure. White panels, sections of pulverized deck, and a cloud of finer debris erupted like a plume of lava from a volcano, some pieces flying swiftly towards the command tower, others scattering into deep space. When the dust cleared there was a ragged crater left behind.

This was _his_ ship, and the alternate humans had the _audacity_ to touch it. Never in Pryde's whole career had he seen such damage dealt with one shot. The Rebels certainly hadn't possessed that kind of firepower, back when they were still a threat.

The command deck trembled underfoot, the vibrations muffled by millions of tons of metal between here and the impact site, and grim reports did not take long to arrive.

"Breaches on twelve decks, sir!"

"Dorsal particle shields are compromised in sections A and C!"

There were another two hits, one after the other at the _Steadfast_'s prow. These blasted off the tip of the Star Destroyer, everything up to a hundred meters, turning the tractor beam and the auxiliary reactor and the forward turbolasers into so much mutilated durasteel.

"Tractor beam projector is disabled, sir!" someone shouted.

"You don't say," muttered Krennic.

Pryde had no time for sarcasm. "Fire all main batteries at that battleship, maximum rate! Take it down before it gets out another volley!"

The hail of shells from the enemy flagship had stopped, though two of the cruisers were still firing smaller broadsides, and two other cruisers maneuvered straight towards the Imperial fleet, apparently intending to use the forward-facing weapons jutting from their prows. Moments later, a beam of light erupted from one of the cruisers and struck a Star Destroyer outside Pryde's field of view.

"What the hell was that?" Krennic asked, glancing around the bridge. "Did any of our ships take damage?"

"Some sort of laser, sir," an officer reported from down below. "Ray shields on the _Merciless _have blocked it."

Another one fired.

"Heavy damage on the _Torment_, sir. Its shields are depleted and its reactor is fluctuating."

Krennic folded his arms. "What do you make of this, captain?"

"If we stick around long enough for them to reload, sir, we're going to start losing ships," Pryde said. "I'm surprised we haven't already."

"I'm not sure I'm so pessimistic. Our numbers are superior, and our firepower is still considerable." He raised his voice, signalling to the comms officers that he wanted his next orders broadcast to the whole fleet. "Have all ships close the distance and swarm the enemy! I want us to focus fire on the smaller ships, especially the two with the laser cannons—they'll make easier targets than the battleship."

One of the weapons officers glanced up at Pryde, looking for confirmation.

"You heard the director," the captain said. "Attack the ship that hit _Torment_."

Fire control crews, sequestered in vast halls elsewhere in the Star Destroyer, would take a few seconds to make the necessary changes. The green turbolaser bolts streaking from either side of the superstructure changed direction well within that time, faster than Pryde had expected. They crashed against the shields of the smaller vessels, just as they had against the battleship's, but already they seemed to be making more headway, the splashes of dissipating energy growing brighter and brighter with each shot.

Then, they were through. The combination of the _Steadfast_'s fire and that of the other Star Destroyers finally overloaded the cruiser's shields, and the turbolaser bolts began detonating against the armored prow, blasting out chunks of metal just as an enemy shell had blasted out a chunk of Pryde's ship. An eye for an eye.

"See, captain?" Krennic said. "We'll wipe them out of the sky soon enough."

Pryde wasn't so sure.

**Orbit around Graval Prime, 2.21 AVY:**

Luke had his wish: hostile starfighters, dead ahead. There must have been hundreds. He thought he could take them—it would be like hunting womp rats back home at Beggar's Canyon, just line them up and shoot.

"Contacts incoming," Sal radioed. "Prepare to engage."

"Look at the size of those things!" Mara said.

"Radio discipline, Delta One."

Mara was right. It was hard to tell how large they were, without anything to compare them to, but Luke estimated at least thirty meters, which was about three times as long as a TIE Interceptor. They weren't thin and spindly, either; each had a wide, solid fuselage with four stubby wings, the aft pair larger than the forward pair. Guns sprouted from them. He imagined the sort of firepower they could bring to bear, and did not want to bear the brunt of it.

Sal broadcast further instructions: "Squadron Five, engage at will. I want flights to stick together, and attack as packs—looks like we'll need the firepower. Let's go!"

Red laser beams streaked out from the barrels of the lead starfighters' cannons, catching a handful of line TIEs and instantly blasting them to pieces. Squadron Five was unharmed, however. Luke turned the yoke of his craft back and forth, weaving in a sinuous path that would hopefully make him harder to hit. He fired back.

"Beta Two, Beta Three," he told Wes and Murkel, "Do you see that closest group of starfighters? We're going to get on their tails and engage. Stay out of their line of fire!"  
"Roger that, Beta One," Murkel said. Wes acknowledged a second later.

They didn't look like they had gun turrets; that was good. If he could only behind the enemy pilots, he could fire on them unopposed, and they surely couldn't be maneuverable enough to escape.

The line of Imperial craft closed the distance. This fight was between roughly eight hundred TIEs and a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty enemy fighters, though Luke thought he spotted the glimmer of a second wave emerging from the battleship.

Several of the hostiles launched missiles. One sped straight towards Luke, its rocket engine leaving a trail of smoke, but he swerved out of the way just in time—an example of his preternatural foresight, he supposed. Another craft in his squadron wasn't so lucky.

"We've lost Delta Three!" Mara announced over the squadron net. That meant she was now flying alone—Javier had been in Delta Flight, too, and he'd been shot down over Ophidia.

"Beta Three, go cover Delta One," he told Wes. "I'll do alright with one wingman."

"Copy that." Wes banked his spacecraft to the left, out of sight. Luke continued forward, into a torrent of laser and missile fire—the glaring red beams of the enemy cut through space towards him, and it was only by dodging and weaving his TIE that he could steer clear.

He zeroed in on his target, a specific starfighter pinpointed simply because it was closest. It approached at breathtaking speed. When he passed it, he saw a symbol like a double-headed eagle painted on the wings, and thought he could spot a pilot in the cockpit, too. Some poor bastard ready to die for his government, like Luke was. The difference, of course, was that the Empire brought order and peace to the galaxy—despite its brutality, despite its iron authoritarianism—and this Imperium of theirs was mired in backwards superstition.

He looped around, almost blacking out from the g-forces. When he checked his radar display he saw that Murkel had matched the maneuver and was following close behind him. Ahead, the hostile starfighter thundered through the void, larger than most Imperial small craft, and ponderously slow to match its size. Luke had to decelerate to keep from hurtling past it.

"All right, I'm lined up," he radioed. "Let's blast him!"

He and Murkel opened fire, spears of green energy shooting from each wingtip of each TIE. The shots splashed harmlessly against an invisible ellipsoid.

"Damn thing's shielded!" Murkel said.

"Nothing to do but keep shooting. Shields are bound to come down eventually."

The hostile tried to turn. Luke turned with it, matching its movements exactly. He'd been right, his ship was vastly more maneuverable. The enemy's fighters flew like bombers and their bombers probably flew like frigates.

He squeezed the two triggers on the control yoke, firing off another burst. This time, the shields failed—an Interceptor packed twice as much firepower as an ordinary TIE, so he wasn't surprised—and bolts impacted against the hull itself, blasting holes in the metal that glowed for a little while afterwards. Murkel got off a few shots as well, though his aim wasn't quite as good.

Then he scored a hit on the engine. The enemy fighter flared up, veered off to the side, and then disintegrated outright into a ball of flame, sending a loose cone of debris flying forward.

Kill number one. Counting the three Hammura drone-ships he had shot down during his only prior combat mission, over Euripidus, that made four—he needed one more to become an ace. He allowed himself a smile beneath his helmet.

"Nice shooting!" Murkel said.

"Yeah, but there's still hundreds of 'em." He glanced at his radar display. "Including one closing in behind us. Watch out!"

He turned to the right, narrowly avoiding a laser beam that passed meters from his left wing, but Murkel wasn't so lucky. Luke never saw his friend die. He just heard an explosion, and watched debris fly past his ship, and saw that the radar display no longer showed Beta Two.

That just about wiped the smile off his face.

"Bastards," he said, cutting the throttle for a split second. The enemy starfighter, predictably, rushed out in front of him, and he blasted it just as he had the first one. Its shields didn't take as long to fail this time. They'd probably taken a few hits from pieces of Murkel's ship.

He hit the engine, a natural vulnerable spot, but in the process of shooting it Luke also damaged the wing, and that was enough to make it tumble out of control. Nevertheless, it was still flying.

His TIE was going too fast; he overshot the enemy starfighter, and had to circle back around. As he turned he saw a vast dogfight, hundreds and hundreds of fighters engaged in a vicious melee, passing over and around each other like swirling locusts—though he was engaged in a fight of his own, and couldn't fully take everything in.

He found one of the enemy fighters, trailing smoke from the left wing. It was probably the one he'd just damaged, though he couldn't be sure, and he dove towards it and opened fire, trying to target the cockpit.

Its damaged wing came off entirely. The fighter, now completely out of control, promptly slammed into another craft from its side, destroying both in a livid fireball—as Luke skirted the flames, he wondered if that counted as one kill, or two. Either way, he was an ace.

"Beta Three, how's it going over there?" Luke asked, mid-turn and searching for another target. For the moment he could afford to worry about Wes.

"We're doing just fine!" Wes radioed back. "We just shot down one and damaged another. These things are tough, but they fly like bricks."

"Yeah, that's about the truth of it."  
"How are you and Murkel doing?"

Luke didn't really want to answer that, but he did. "Murkel's dead."

Wes did not respond, at least not for a few seconds. "He was a good man. Died serving the Empire."

Luke spotted another fighter, diving straight towards him. It launched missiles and he evaded. "Yeah."

Luke didn't care about serving the Empire, at least not beyond a vague sense of duty to law and order. He just wanted to fly. The best part about the job was the friends he made, and the worst part was watching those friends get killed.

He swerved around until he was on the tail of the fighter that had just attacked him. These ships were all too easy to outmaneuver, though TIEs certainly couldn't match their durability or armament. Agility defined the thin line between life and death.

The first few bursts from his laser cannons took out the enemy starfighter's deflector shield, and the next scored holes in the fuselage as it tried to break away from him. Still, it flew, and Luke had to circle around again and make another pass before the fighter finally disintegrated.

Just like hunting womp rats back home. Deadly, heavily armored womp rats.

**Aboard the **_**Marauder**_**, 2.21 AVY:**

"The void shields of _Undying Resolve_ have failed, sir," reported an officer from the raised deck behind the command throne. He leaned over the railing, garbed in a blue double-breasted tunic, the golden Aquila on his chest gleaming under the bridge lumens. "It is sustaining heavy damage to the hull, and most weapons are offline."

"Have it mount a fighting retreat," Commodore Lepidus ordered. He glanced up at the orderly, then fixed his gaze again on the line of enemy warships thrusting steadily towards him.

"Yes, sir."

He watched the _Undying Resolve_, his stricken ship. It was almost two kilometers long, larger than any of the newcomers, but their combined fire was about to destroy it regardless. Explosions wracked the hull as it absorbed shot after shot. Flames puffed out in great billowing cumuli, and pieces of titanium and ceramite trailed smoke.

"What do you think they are?" he asked Commissar Grissom. "Xenos? Heretics?"

"They're nothing that's been seen in this segmentum before, I can tell you that," the old man said. "Whatever they are, they have made quite the entrance."

The macro-cannons fired again, sending a rumbling through the ship. Shells tore through the hulls and superstructures of the enemy vessels. It was a scene of carnage, altogether satisfying to watch—the lances hadn't had much of an impact, but kinetics went through their void shields as if they weren't even there.

"Sir! We've taken two of them out!"

Lepidus smiled. He could see that for himself; one of the enemy's wedge-shaped starships was drifting away from the fleet, rendered unrecognizable by the merciless pounding of macro-cannon shells, and another had exploded outright, showering its neighbors with a hail of debris.

"Very good. Captain Percival, keep your cannons firing—we're doing very well against them."

"Aye, sir," Percival replied.

A vast dogfight raged between the two fleets, Imperial _Fury_-class interceptors engaging their far more numerous opponents, red laser beams and green bolts of light flying freely through space.

"How many fighters do we still have?" Lepidus asked.

"290 fighters launched, 106 in reserve," answered the flight control officer on the elevated deck behind him. "Shall we begin launching _Starhawk_ bombers, too?

"No." He looked over his shoulder." We don't have space superiority yet, they're just going to get shot down. Keep sending up fighters."

"Sir!" said Captain Percival, and he had a feeling it wasn't about the fighters. "The _Undying Resolve_!"

Lepidus glanced through the armorcrys again, just in time to see the ship detonate.

**Aboard the **_**Steadfast**_**, 2.21 AVY:**

"Finally," Krennic said, watching as an explosion ripped the enemy cruiser in half. Its prow and stern angled upwards, contorting the ship in the shape of a shallow V. "Let's keep whittling them down. Fire on the remaining frigates!"

An officer relayed his message back to the communications console, some distance aft, while Pryde wondered how to phrase his next words.

"Sir…"

"What?" Krennic regarded him coolly.

"We're taking a pummeling, sir." The captain gestured towards the crew pits on either side, where officers scrambled to attend to the damage the _Steadfast_ had already sustained. "We've lost two Star Destroyers. Six more are critically damaged, including the one we're standing on."

"We might still pull through."

The rumble of an explosion sounded on the left. Another Star Destroyer, taken out of action. Pryde looked that way and saw the ship—probably the _Imperial Thunder_, but it wasn't as if the Empire painted names on the hulls—veer towards the planet, drawn in by the force of gravity now that its engines were out of operation. Its bridge was shot off entirely and most of the superstructure was gone with it.

"Sir, the _Steadfast_ might be the next ship to go down. We've already lost the entire prow."

Krennic clasped his hands behind him, then looked to the window, then looked to Pryde. He sighed. The enemy ships were close, now; their battleship took up half the window. It had to be at least seven kilometers long, almost half the length of a Super Star Destroyer. Maybe when the Imperial Navy brought a ship like the _Executor_ through the portal, they would have the advantage, but until then they were outmatched.

"All right, captain. We will withdraw." Krennic shouted over his shoulder at the communications officers: "Order the fleet to disengage, and prepare to make the jump to hyperspace!"

**Orbit around Graval Prime, 2.21 AVY:**

The order to withdraw came just as Luke was pouring laser fire into another enemy fighter.

"Squadron Five, disengage and return to base," said one of the _Steadfast_'s flight controllers. "Repeat, disengage and return to base."

The command frequency had already rerouted to his helmet—Sal was dead, shot down by point defense on the enemy battleship, and that left him, Beta One, as the next in line. He informed the rest of what was left of the squadron, one the fighter he was tailing had exploded into a ball of technicolor fire. Seven kills.

"Listen up, everybody!" he radioed. "I've just been told that we're packing up and returning home. Follow me back to the ship."

"Affirmative, Beta One," said Mara.

"Affirmative," said the other flight lieutenant, Vri Cambran, flying in Gamma One.

It was not too hard to break away from the dogfight. Even regular TIEs were faster and more maneuverable than their opposite numbers, so there was only so much the Imperium could do to pursue them. Luke swung his craft around, checking nearby space for hostile fighters, and then found the _Steadfast_, at the very tip of the Imperial formation. The ship had taken a real beating; the prow was gone entirely, and even though he was looking from below, a stream of debris and venting gases showed that it had taken a hit to the dorsal side, too.

This battle was a disaster. Squadron Five had lost four Interceptors, with seven remaining, and Luke was now their de facto leader. The loss was only partly mitigated by the fact that they had collectively shot down at least sixteen spacecraft. He didn't know what casualties had been like for the regular TIEs, but he could guess. The clouds of fighters returning to the Star Destroyers looked distinctly thinner than they had setting out.

**Aboard the **_**Marauder**_**, 2.21 AVY:**

The enemy was running away. Seventeen ships, many of them riddled with holes, pivoted around in front of Lepidus' fleet and left their stricken comrades behind. Blue thrusters flared against the stars.

"I recommend pursuit, commodore," Commissar Grissom said. "Let none escape the Emperor's wrath."

Lepidus nodded. "They have at least a day's journey to reach the Mandeville Point and transit into the Warp. Let's see if we can outrun them. Full speed ahead, Captain Percival!"

"Aye, sir," Percival said. "Navigation, bring us to face the enemy, and engage full thrust. I want chasers firing."

Flashes of laser fire and explosions erupted in the space between fleets, as _Fury_ interceptors caught a handful of the enemy's strange dumbbell-shaped craft. On the whole, though, the hostile starfighters were faster than the interceptors pursuing them, and they made it back to their fleeing motherships. Over on the Imperial side the three remaining escorts matched pace with the Grand Cruiser. Their forward-facing weapons were minimal—just a handful of small macro-cannon turrets—but they kept the pressure on, lobbing enough shells to wear down the enemy's void shields.

Then the ships started disappearing. The first one streaked into the distance at an impossible speed, and vanished without a trace—followed by a second, and a third, until all of them were gone. Each made a muffled thump as it tore through realspace, in a Warp transit like none he had ever seen. All that remained were the three burning vessels, shattered and broken by macrocannon fire, which drifted aimlessly through orbital space.

"That's impossible," he said, glancing at Grissom. "The Mandeville Point…"

The commissar did not reply. Lepidus stepped forward towards the edge of the command platform, gripped the railing, and gazed uncomprehendingly at the emptiness where a fleet had been.

* * *

Author's Note: Tune in next time, for the Sisters of Battle and Emperor Palpatine! Note that Chapter 9 might be two weeks out, as I'm pretty busy with homework and other writing projects this weekend. I'll have it posted as soon as I can.


	9. The Emperor's Wisdom

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay on this one! Finals knocked the wind out of me, and I've got some drama going on in my personal life, too. Now that the term is over I expect I can return to weekly updates. This is a bit of a short chapter, because I've moved some material over to next week, but that just means the next chapter will be heavy on the content. Enjoy!

* * *

**Imperial Palace, Coruscant, 2.27 AVY:**

"The Emperor will see you now," announced Mas Amedda, Grand Vizier of the Galactic Empire, opening the doors to the throne room.

"Very good," Krennic said. He stood from the bench and dusted off his uniform; he had been waiting here for some time, his only company the rows of heroic statues lining the antechamber. Imperial heroes, commemorated in bronze. Perhaps he would one day receive the same treatment for his achievements.

Krennic walked past Amedda—a hideous blue-skinned alien, with horns and tusks, but nevertheless one of the Emperor's most influential servants—and entered the very center of Imperial power. The air was sterile, having no smell but the chemical scent of whatever they had used to scrub the windows. Light from the setting Coruscanti sun spilled in through circular windows.

This building had been the Jedi Temple, in a different age. Few traces remained of that order of monks and sorcerers. Their statues and murals had been removed long ago, replaced with art glorifying the New Order, and here, on the once-holy ground of the central spire, Palpatine dictated the fate of billions.

Krennic saw the throne at the far end of the room, and momentarily paused. It was never easy, going before the Emperor, knowing that one failure in his presence could mean disgrace or death. He had to force himself forward. Two rows of stormtroopers lined the central walkway—on either side, the floor curved upwards, culminating in an elevated row of control posts—and ahead, on a raised platform above a seemingly bottomless shaft, the Emperor rested on his throne. A pair of crimson-robed Royal Guards flanked him, with four more standing out in front. They held force pikes in lieu of blasters, foolishly in Krennic's opinion—while it was said that they had never lost a man in battle, he was sure that a sufficient number of elite troopers could take them down, especially at a distance.

There were others beside the Emperor. Darth Vader stood to the left, Grand Moff Tarkin on the right. Tarkin still commanded the Death Star, these days—undeservingly—but with the Rebel Alliance long since obliterated, there was little for it to do. Accordingly he usually parked the battle-station around Coruscant, and spent his time navigating the labyrinth of Imperial politics down on the surface.

The throne room was silent, save for Krennic's footsteps, as he approached the dais. He kept his gaze deferentially low. Up the first steps he went, past the first four guards, and he paused just before the second, shorter flight of four steps, standing finally in his place before the ruler of the galaxy. He knelt.

"Your Majesty," he said, his eyes closed and his head down. "It is an honor."

"Director Krennic," replied Palpatine. "You may stand."

Krennic rose, and regarded the Emperor. He was an old man, shriveled and distorted beyond his years, not at all the charming and grandfatherly Chancellor who had led the Republic to its demise. Hardly anything of his face was visible underneath a sagging black hood; his hands were pale and gnarled.

Krennic dared not voice the thought aloud, of course, but between the hideous Emperor, the alien Mas Amedda, and the sorcerous, half-mechanical Vader, the highest ranks of the Empire comprised a gaggle of freaks. Perhaps the Empire would be better off with real humans in charge. One day, perhaps.

"Your little expedition cost us many ships," the Emperor went on. "Three were destroyed during the battle. Three more disappeared during the return flight, their hyperdrives evidently damaged. You are lucky to have returned at all, director—I am told the _Steadfast_ was crippled during the engagement, its prow blasted off by a single enemy shell."

"Well… yes." Krennic pursed his lips. When he spoke again, it was hurriedly, and he raised a hand to emphasize his point. "But you must weigh the losses against all that we achieved. Thirteen worlds laid to waste, an enemy cruiser blasted to pieces—"

"You lost the battle, director," Tarkin spoke up. He too was going on in years, visibly older than he had been at the time of the Victory at Yavin. Wrinkles had advanced and his hair had receded. "This was our first engagement against the Imperium, and they dealt us a bloody nose. It goes to prove what I have maintained all along, which is that you, a mere project director, should not be in command of military assets. Just as you did with the Death Star, you try to step outside your bounds."

Krennic clenched his gloved fists.

"Have you a rebuttal for the Grand Moff?" Vader asked.

"Any officer would have lost as many ships, if not more. Who would you have put in command instead? Ozzel? Motti? Rax? Wouldn't have changed the fact that their projectile weapons are deadly against our understrength particle shields."

"The particle shield problem is being dealt with," Tarkin said.

"I know." Krennic shot him a glare. "I was the man who ordered it." He turned his gaze back towards Palpatine. "Your Majesty, repairs are proceeding on schedule, and I will be able to lead the detachment through the portal, with reinforcements, within a few weeks' time. Already my staff and I have drawn up plans for Operation Basilisk: we will seize our first foothold in the other galaxy. I can begin delivering you new worlds, just as I promised when I took charge of the Kryos Installation."

"You will not," Palpatine said.

He stamped a foot down. "Your Majesty, we have the initiative! We have to act now, while the enemy is still reeling from this attack!"

"I am not disputing that, director. I am disputing your capacity to lead the operation. You will turn over all documentation for Basilisk to Governor Tarkin, who will henceforth command all extragalactic forces."

Krennic raised an eyebrow. "He is leaving the Death Star behind?"

"For the moment," Tarkin said. What Krennic wouldn't give to put a blaster bolt in that man's chest… "Moff Jerjerrod will assume temporary command, until you complete the larger portal at Kryos—another aspect of your duties that you have neglected, I'd like to point out. Perhaps retiring from military adventures will allow you to refocus your efforts where the Empire actually needs them."

"I will do as His Majesty commands," Krennic said. "I want it made clear, though, that I did _not_ fail. Take the starfighter battle, for instance. We _won_ that."

"I will concede, your starfighters did very well," said Palpatine.

Krennic looked up. Perhaps this was his chance to save some face, and not look completely foolish before the Emperor. He pressed the point further: "Several of our pilots became aces. The most successful of them was one Luke Skywalker, I believe. Seven kills, in an Interceptor—he's a double ace. Received the Imperial Badge of Merit for his actions."

Vader glanced towards Palpatine, then back at Krennic. "Skywalker."

"Something bothers you about the name?" The last time he'd heard the name had been some twenty years before—it had belonged to a man who'd risen to prominence during the Clone Wars, then disappeared so suddenly alongside the rest of the Jedi. Krennic had known better than to ask questions. "Surely… surely you don't think he might be related to _Anakin_ Skywalker?"

Vader raised a hand to silence him. "You will see that this Skywalker is present at the victory gala aboard the _Demolisher_. I will inspect him personally."

Krennic bowed his head. "Yes, Lord Vader."

If Luke was the son of Anakin, that could make him Force-sensitive, which would explain how he had racked up so many kills—and also sign his death warrant. For a moment Krennic felt pity for the boy. He would show up to the banquet, rub elbows with high-ranking Imperials, and then die shortly afterwards. But such was the fate of Force-users: quiet elimination.

Palpatine spoke up again. "Your orders, director, are to continue expanding the Kryos Installation's capabilities, and to complete the second portal so that the Death Star may proceed through. Do you understand?"

Krennic knelt, fighting back a scowl. "As you wish, Your Majesty. Is there anything else you require of me?"

The contours of Imperial politics were aligned against him. Tarkin had the Emperor's clear favor, his blessing to capture glory in the other galaxy, while Krennic acted as a glorified ferryman shuttling ships from one universe to another. It was an outrage

"No, director. Return to your duties, and know your place."

"At once." Krennic stood, nodded towards the Emperor, Vader, and Tarkin, then turned and headed back down the steps towards the central walkway. Mas Amedda opened the door for him at the far end.

Tarkin would pay for all this, Krennic would make sure of that. He would not lie down and quietly accept such indignation. As he made for the door, he glanced over his shoulder at the Grand Moff, vowing silently that the next Imperial power shuffle would cut him down to size.

Maybe he could bring down Palpatine too, while he was at it.

* * *

Author's Note: Tune in next Wednesday for when the Sisters of Battle (finally) make their debut! Also, expect the first meeting of Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader...


	10. Landfall

Author's Note: I'm baaaack! I apologize for my inconsistency-life really gets in the way sometimes-and I thank all of you for your continued support as readers. To get things running again I will deliver what you all have long anticipated: ground combat between the Empire and the Imperium of Man! Just a taste of what is to come...

* * *

Excerpt from "Operation Basilisk: A Strategic and Operational Analysis," presented to Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin by the Extragalactic Forces General Staff:

One of the most promising targets we have singled out for conquest is the planet Numor, located about thirteen light-years from the Kryos terminus. Three successive probe flights have determined its physical characteristics and yielded some information on its strategic value; signals intercepts complete the picture, providing adequate intelligence prior to a military operation there.

Numor is what the natives term an "agri-world." Most of its usable surface is taken up by farmland, producing grain, fruit, and livestock. The resulting food product is intended not just for the planet's population—some six hundred million—but also for consumption by other worlds in the region, including several which have been evaluated as too populous and heavily defended to attack at this time. Seizing Numor would send a considerable ripple effect through the enemy supply system and undermine the Imperium's local capacity to feed itself.

Despite this strategic value, little evidence has been found to suggest that Numor is heavily garrisoned. There is only a single orbital defense platform, which appears to be inactive, and a loosely organized militia referred to as the "Planetary Defense Force," or PDF, estimated to be some 250,000 strong. We believe resistance will be relatively light from the point of landfall onwards. Tactically, extensive plains favor mechanized warfare, while light gravity will facilitate Star Destroyer operations within the atmosphere as well as airborne strategic transit once the planet has been secured.

As envisioned at the present time, the assault on Numor will commence with the seizure of the main planetary starport. It is believed to be only minimally occupied; resistance should be light. The native population, enslaved under a superstitious and theocratic regime for an indeterminate length of time, is expected to greet us as liberators.

**Numor, 2.30 AVY:**

TK-5630 had the honor of serving the Emperor in the first wave. His would not be the first pair of boots to touch the soil of this new galaxy—he was seated too far from the landing craft's exit—but he might well be the tenth or eleventh trooper off the ramp, and that was good enough for him. With the white gleam of their armor, he and his comrades carried the civilizing light of Imperial civilization. These superstitious savages would fight, at first, but a century down the line, after the war was won, they would see that it had all been to their benefit.

To the benefit of those who survived, at least.

The landing craft shook around him, and metal groaned. Atmospheric reentry was already past; now came the swift descent to the enemy spaceport, the harrowing gauntlet of antiaircraft fire and the final, sudden jolt of landing. It was an exhilarating occasion, one he had trained for in the simulator dozens of times. Aside from the occupation of Tyrindao, where the most action he'd seen had been a car bomb, this was TK-5630's first combat deployment, dropping from orbit in the belly of a _Sentinel_-class shuttle.

Something exploded, outside the ship. Maybe two hundred meters away. Over the whir of the ion engines it was barely possible to discern the sound, though the collision of shrapnel with the outer hull—like metal rain—was a little louder.

"There goes a shuttle," said the sergeant TK-5124, seated two spots down in the _Sentinel_'s spacious interior; altogether it carried seventy-five stormtroopers, plus heavy weapons. "Don't let that scare you, troopers. These things are built as tough as banthas and the enemy got a lucky break taking out just one of them."

There were eight shuttles participating in the attack on the spaceport; to lose one was no great blow, and in any case, casualties had been adequately planned for. TK-5630 trusted his commanders. What good was a soldier if he had no faith in those above him?

He was jolted sideways in his seat, as the shuttle tilted its nose up and killed most of its horizontal velocity. They were almost there. He gripped his blaster rifle and looked towards the nearby door, on the side of the _Sentinel_'s passenger hold. Third Platoon's lieutenant spoke over the comm-net:

"Attention, troopers: We are above the LZ. First Squad is first out. Find cover and lay down suppressing fire for those who follow!"

The lieutenant, always one to lead by example, would charge out the door alongside First Squad. His orange shoulder pauldron would make him an easy target.

Lasers fired, the sound they made deep and portentous. These were the landing craft's cannons, pummeling some unfortunate target on the ground, and softening up the enemy starport for the troops who would capture it. Battle was close. TK-5630 raised his E-11 blaster rifle, a sidearm he had trained with for hundreds of hours—now he would have the opportunity to draw blood with it. A warrior always took pride in his weapon, he had learned that at the Academy.

The landing craft rocked and shook. There was a kick as repulsors fired; he was pushed down into his seat, while armor clattered against armor in the cabin's close quarters.

One final jolt, and the ship was still.

"We're down!" shouted the sergeant. "Out of your seats, let's move!"

TK-5630 bolted upright and fell into line behind another member of his squad. To his left, the side door opened by a crack and let in the pale light of an overcast afternoon, while at the back of the cabin a team of stormtroopers hefted an E-Web repeating blaster.

Before the door had retracted all the way, a laser beam streaked through and blasted a trooper's head into red mist. The same beam killed another three men before ultimately punching through the far wall—four troopers down, and they hadn't even left the shuttle yet. This was not an unopposed landing.

"Go, dammit!" shouted the lieutenant, running out onto the ramp that was now lowering towards the ground. First Squad went with him, spraying crimson blaster bolts, while enemy shots flew at them from the smoky and indeterminate distance. All lasers. Judging by their intensity—they left scorchmarks, not craters, when they hit durasteel—these were just infantry weapons, not the presumably anti-armor beam that had punched clean through the landing craft.

TK-5630 stepped over a corpse on the way out. Then he was down the ramp, ankle-deep in the sodden grass, running even though the mud sucked at every footfall. There was no time to look, but he was certain his pristine white armor was already tarnished.

Within seconds he had gotten his bearings: there was a runway up ahead, beyond it a mound of concrete rubble that had once been a building. Some sort of terminal or cargo processing facility, probably. TIE bombers had hit it on the way in. Nevertheless, troops of what the natives called the "Planetary Defense Force" had been surprisingly quick to prepare positions among the ruins, and they were putting up fierce resistance.

To the front, the enemy. To the sides, an expanse of alternating grass and tarmac, cratered. Behind him were the newly landed shuttles, some of which were taking off again now that their cargoes were disgorged. Altogether the situation matched what he'd seen during the briefing. His platoon was to advance straight into hostile fire and pin the enemy, while Second and Fifth Platoons struck from the flanks.

Laser bolts streaked past him and he dived for cover in a small crater. Beside him, a pair of troopers set up an E-Web and started blasting, though they only got off a few shots before a rocket sent pieces of their bodies and weapon flying.

"Second Squad!" called out the sergeant, TK-5124. "Get moving! I want Fireteam A advancing, Fireteam B firing overwatch!"

TK-5630 was in Fireteam A. But he did not dread the thought of advancing into a blizzard of hostile fire—he was a stormtrooper of His Majesty the Emperor, and he did not know fear. He stood from the crater, covered in mud, and ran forward. Any shots he fired would probably go wide, but fire he did.

The man beside him went down—TK-5667, a good trooper, a recruit from Bespin who had always been pleasant to interact with if not particularly bright. He died unceremoniously, with a smoking hole right in the middle of his helmet. TK-5630 did not even pause to look.

Then he was almost on the tarmac, where opportunities for cover were strikingly fewer. The bombers and shuttles had avoided blasting the landing zones so that the Empire might still get some use out of them. There was, however, a short slope leading up to the runway, and it was here that he went to ground again, rifle aimed over the asphalt. Most of his squad fell in beside him. The others were dead, including, he realized, the sergeant. He'd died somewhere further back and he hadn't noticed amid the chaos.

"How many do we have left?" TK-5630 asked the nearest trooper, TK-5202. To an outsider they all would have looked identical—the very face of Imperial uniformity—but his heads-up display superimposed a number above every stormtrooper to keep them neatly differentiated.

TK-5202 paused to count. "Five?"

Out of nine. All this and they still hadn't gotten a good look at the enemy. Just flashes of red laser fire from a pile of rubble, and occasional glimpses of pale faces and rounded blue-grey armor.

"Corporal TK-5111 is still alive," TK-5202 went on. "He is in command."

TK-5630 nodded and looked behind him. The shuttles had all taken off again, save for one which had been hit by a missile or a heavy laser and now lay burning on the grass. Most of the rest seemed to be circling overhead, alongside TIE fighters and bombers, drawing antiaircraft fire from distant corners of the starport while raining down missiles and laser bolts in retaliation. On the other side of the LZ, by a series of outbuildings that must have served some technical function in more peaceful times, several Imperial platoons were overrunning much lighter opposition.

He turned back after another moment. His own slice of the battlefield was still heated, and to close the distance he would have to charge across sixty meters of flat, paved, exposed ground. Something resembling a survival instinct kicked in and he swiftly suppressed it.

"On my mark, we charge them," TK-5111 said, inching upwards on the embankment.

A series of fast, staccato gunshots kicked in. The enemy had set up some sort of slugthrower, primitive but deadly all the same. Nearby, another squad went over, and they were mowed down—where was the flanking attack? The Planetary Defense Force should have been distracted here, at the very least. TK-5630 peeked over the edge, took a shot at a blue-grey enemy trooper who had carelessly exposed himself, then went back down as several laser bolts streaked his way.

"Ready…" said the corporal. Even he hesitated a little.

TK-5630 hesitated, too, despite himself. Was this it, his heroic death in the Emperor's service? Unbidden images flashed across his mind, of a child he had lost and a wife he had discarded. It had been so long ago…

But no, now was not his time. Deliverance came with a pair of TIE bombers that swooped by overhead, pummeling the enemy position with a rain of thermal detonators. The bombs fell like pebbles, detonating in a sheet of fire and shockwaves on the ground, sending shrapnel flying overhead and pulverizing what little remained of the starport terminal. Now was their chance.

"Go!" the corporal shouted, though TK-5630 and several others had already pre-empted him. They charged into the maelstrom before the flames had even cleared.

* * *

Author's Note: Thank you for reading! Next chapter will be up as soon as I write it, which should be less than a week.


	11. Liberation

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay with this one. More chapters coming soon!

* * *

**Numor, 2.30 AVY:**

TK-5630 set the delay on his thermal detonator, then lobbed it around a street corner. A laser almost caught his hand as it briefly passed within sight of the enemy. He withdrew and huddled with his squadmates behind the pockmarked mass of a commercial building, waiting for the detonator to do its work.

Moments passed, loud and raucous with the din of weapons fire all around him, and at last there was an explosion out of sight, bits of rubble and sand flying from the location of what had so recently been a slugthrower emplacement. The position was neutralized, now; his platoon could advance another block or two until it ran into the next nest of indigenous resistance. This was urban warfare, street to street, a thousand small-scale clashes adding up to a contest for control of a whole city.

Corporal TK-5111 peered around the corner. Nobody shot at him, surprisingly, and he reported back to the four men under his command:

"We've scattered them! Let's go, troopers!"

He waved forward, and the tattered remnants of Second Squad advanced. TK-5630 ran low, clutching his blaster with both hands, and the limited peripheral vision of his helmet offered him a view of things directly ahead of him. There could be an AT-AT hiding to his left or right and he wouldn't know. But of course, that only served to underscore Imperial doctrine: each stormtrooper was utterly dependent on his fellows.

The squad—really a fireteam at this point—spread out on the adjacent street, two troopers covering each wall while TK-5630 advanced down the center, past the pile of corpses, ruptured sandbags, and twisted metal that marked the former slugthrower position. He allowed himself a measure of pride for the accuracy and deadliness of his grenade throw; he was serving the Emperor well, just as he had sworn to do when he'd left his old life behind and joined the men in white.

Then the enemy opened fire from behind a wrecked vehicle, maybe twenty meters away. TK-5630 went to ground immediately. There was enough rubble and detritus scattered in the street to offer a modicum of protection, and he raised his rifle to return fire, even though he couldn't get a clear shot at anyone. Sometimes it was enough to spray plasma at the enemy and make them keep their heads down.

There was another squad nearby, with a lightweight repeating blaster—they had the same idea. Red bolts met red beams, crashed against the vehicle the natives were using for cover, sent a man sprawling on the ground. TK-5630 took this opportunity to advance another couple of meters, to a promising-looking stone pillar which had toppled over from what appeared to be a government building. Ornate windows and a golden, double-headed eagle looked out over him.

"Anyone have a smoke grenade?" radioed TK-5202, hiding in the frame of a shop window on the left-hand side of the street.

"TK-5676 here. Negative."

"TK-5630. I'm out." Ammunition was running low for everybody; they were about eight hours into the Battle of Numor, and so far, enemy resistance had not collapsed as anticipated. If anything it had grown more tenacious. The starport had fallen, allowing for the uncontested landings of the second and third waves, but the nearby city remained a stronghold—the elimination of which fell on the shoulders of his unit, the 54th Regiment.

"We'll do without," said TK-5111. "5630, 5202, I want you to inch forward along the center. With the other squad here that should take some pressure off of you. 5676, 5780—with me, left flank."

TK-5780, on the right, had to cross to fulfill that order. He was halfway there, by TK-5630, when a laser beam finally caught him in the arm and sent him crashing to the ground. The man's helmet only amplified his agonized grunts.

"I'm hit!" he radioed. TK-5630 looked over again and saw a ragged, bloody bite taken out of white armor, with the limb hanging limply below. These lasers were nothing to be scoffed at; they were stronger, probably, than the Empire's own blasters.

"Affirmative, 5780," TK-5111 said. "Hold position and await medical attention."

Stormtroopers cared little for their own—winning the battle came first. If TK-5780 survived, however, he would be rewarded handsomely by the Empire for his sacrifice.

TK-5630 needed no such material comforts, though. His only aspiration was to die fulfilling the Emperor's grand plan for the galaxy.

He saw more hostile soldiers moving forward, behind the wreck of the car. The forces of the Empire might well have been outnumbered in this part of the city. For a moment, he felt something resembling unease as he contemplated an enemy counterattack, but then he heard footsteps behind him—heavy, mechanical footsteps. Twin blaster bolts shot out over his shoulder, detonating among the enemy. When he turned he saw an AT-ST advancing among two full squads of stormtroopers. Their armor was clean and polished, identifying them immediately as part of the latest wave to be committed to combat.

"Our armor is moving forward!" TK-5111 said over the comm-net. "Keep up the pressure, troopers, help is here! Center group, I want you to advance to that barricade on the right, and prepare to assault!"

With a finger he indicated a pile of sandbags that must have been a half-completed and unused defensive position. It would work adequately as cover, however, and as a base from which to attack the enemy behind the wrecked car.

TK-5630 stood from cover, ignoring the bleeding, moaning trooper only a few paces away, and with his comrade TK-5202 he bolted for the barricade, laser flashes bright in his field of vision.

As he ran he realized he was the farthest forward out of any of the stormtroopers on this street. Somehow, he always ended up at the vanguard, and he wouldn't have had it any other way.

**Numor, 2.30 AVY:**

"They're coming," said the private, peering down the long, level roadway with a pair of magnoculars.

"How many?" asked Lieutenant Jeal Varon. He crouched in the ditch with the rest of the ragged and grim-faced command squad, eight men total. The rains came heavily this time of year; his blue-grey PDF armor was thoroughly coated in mud, and his knees were submerged outright.

"Three transports. I'd estimate eight soldiers in each."

"More of the repulsors?"  
"Yes, sir. They are very fast, they'll be here soon." The private lowered the magnoculars, and retreated deeper into the roadside ditch so as not to be seen. Some scattered bushes provided cover, but they were still dangerously exposed. The flat farmland in these parts provided little concealment.

"All right." He spoke over the intra-platoon vox link: "Sergeant Keyl, ready the missile launcher. We will fire only after they have passed—I suspect their armor is weakest towards the rear."

"Is that really a good idea, sir?" asked the platoon sergeant, Floy, flat on his stomach on the upwards slope, armed with a lasgun while Varon had only a laspistol. "They will have plenty of opportunities to spot us as they close the distance."

"It's our best bet." He gestured at the mud. "Besides, with all this crap on us, we'll blend in well, won't we?"

Floy didn't laugh. Varon grabbed the magnoculars from the private and did some looking for himself. There they were, about a kilometer away, boxy grey vehicles speeding along atop nothing but air.

He voxed: "Missile launcher ready?"

"Ready," reported the other sergeant.

Next he spoke to the vox operator, the link to Captain Harzel and the other platoons. "Inform command that we have sighted the enemy, and are preparing to engage."

"Aye, sir!" The man spoke quietly into the mouthpiece and relayed the news.

There were just two squads under his command, formed from those members of the platoon who had survived the fighting on the Ligurian Peninsula. Floy led the command squad and Keyl led the one stationed on the far side of the road. The rest of Third Company was further back, preparing defensive positions, while Varon's platoon had the unenviable task of ambushing the invaders as they approached.

It had been about fifty hours since the enemy made planetfall. During that time, most of the major cities had fallen, despite a creditable performance by the PDF; now the remnants conducted a desperate defense out in the countryside.

"All right. Hit the lead transport to stop the others. Nobody moves a muscle until that rocket is live, you hear me?"

"Affirmative, sir."

The transports grew larger and larger in his field of view. Ten troopers per vehicle made for thirty total, supported by what looked to be dorsal laser turrets on each craft—more firepower than he had. Man for man, these people were scarcely better than his own soldiers, but they had superior mobility and air support, and that made all the difference.

What were they? They were human, he knew that much—on the first day of the battle he had removed the helmet from one of their dead, and been shocked to see a face very much like his own—and they did not appear to worship the Emperor. That made them heretics. But, unlike most heretics, they were meticulously organized, and they used weapons and equipment that were all their own, instead of making do with stolen Imperial articles.

His best guess was that some benighted empire, lost since Old Night, had finally ventured into known space and happened to make its first stop at Numor. They were carving out a fiefdom from his home; Varon's job was to resist, until the forces of the Imperium at large came to the rescue. The astropathic distress signals had already been sent. There was no telling whether help was weeks, months, or years away, and it would likely come after he was already dead.

"Look, sir!" Sergeant Floy pointed at the convoy. Actually—he was pointing ahead of the convoy, at a small black sphere that raced down the road maybe two meters above the ground.

"Must be their equivalent to a servo-skull," the lieutenant said. "Everybody down!"

His command squad buried themselves deeper in the mud. Nevertheless, they were nine men in bulky armor that did not quite match their environment, and the bushes were thin here, in this watery ditch on the edge of a potato field, so they would most likely still be visible to the enemy probe.

It hummed as it flew past, seemingly taking no notice of them. Varon allowed himself to believe that his platoon had gone unseen. He continued to believe that until the convoy lurched to a halt, about forty meters away, and began disgorging troops.

"Shit," he breathed. "Shit, they saw us!"

The lead vehicle opened fire. Its turret started shooting first, followed by hull-mounted lasers after the whole craft maneuvered into position. Explosions blasted the ground, lofted plumes of mud into the air, sent men flying. Varon himself was covered in a thick layer of dirt, shielding him from the bombardment's sheer unabated intensity of light and noise. It continued for what felt like minutes. The blasts stopped after a while, though given how hard his ears rang it was difficult to tell.

He sat up and wiped mud off his face. Some had gotten in his eyes, too, but he blinked it out. Around him lay the smouldering, dismembered corpses of his command squad. Floy was nowhere to be seen, though there were several candidates as to which body or piece of a body might be his, and the vox operator, doubled over with guts hanging out, was certainly dead, the equipment he carried similarly mutilated. Varon was cut off from Third Company. Maybe they would hear the explosions and gunfire—they were only a few kilometers away—but he could not count on them arriving in time.

He looked through the clearing smoke at the enemy. They were advancing, quickly at that. The repuslorcraft were side-by side now, rather than in a line, and about thirty white-armored troopers were dismounted and taking potshots at the would-be ambushers' positions. Varon ducked as a red plasma bolt nearly caught him in the shoulder.

He had to at least make contact with the missile launcher team, on the other side of the road. Assuming they'd survived. He dug around through the mud and blood for his handheld vox, which had become separated from him during the bombardment.

"Sergeant Keyl, can you hear me?" he shouted into the handheld vox. "Sergeant Keyl, respond!"

Nothing. The enemy's guns were powerful, they had virtually destroyed his understrength platoon in the span of minutes. Then:

"Lieutenant! It's Willis." One of the riflemen. "We've got a handful over here, sir."

"That's great to hear. I'm the only man left on this side—they hit us hard. Is the missile launcher still—"

Enemy bolts blasted the ground in front of him, sending up plumes of mud, and he retreated further into the ditch. The enemy was almost here. Varon fired a few shots with his laspistol, caught an enemy trooper in the stomach and sent him doubling over. The return fire, naturally, was a tempest of plasma that all but pinned him, and he prayed to the Emperor for one thing: that he should survive long enough to punish these invaders for their assault on his homeworld.

He glimpsed soldiers circling around through the fields on either side of the roadway. They must have overestimated his platoon's strength—they were attempting to envelop him, rather than execute a direct assault. That gave him time. Their repulsorcraft were high-value targets, and the platoon might still have had access to a missile launcher...

"Fire at will!" he voxed. "I want those vehicles neutralized!"  
"Understood, sir. But we don't—"

There was a thump on the other end and Willis went silent, though the sounds of battle still carried over the vox.

"Willis? Willis, respond!"

Who knew how many were left on the far side? The task at hand, now, was to make his way across the road and regroup with the other squad. It would hardly befit an officer to die away from the rest of his unit.

Varon fished around among the bodies of his compatriots, unfazed by the blood smearing all over his hands and grey-blue uniform. It was not long before he found what he was looking for: a smoke grenade. To dash across the elevated roadway in full view of the enemy would normally be suicide, but this might just give him a chance.

With the grenade in hand, Varon climbed up the embankment, and paused to gather the courage for what he needed to do. He did not have much time to gauge which way the wind was blowing, not with bolts of plasma streaking everywhere; he would have to rely on good fortune.

Then, he pressed the activation key and tossed the grenade across the road. It burst in a puff of grey smoke, which, blown by a slight breeze, drifted back towards him. Perfect. He got up and ran.

Red flashes strobed in the smoke, a few of them coming close enough for him to feel the heat through his armor. The air he breathed had an acrid tang to it. His first urge was to cough and choke, which made it hard to sprint, but sprint he did—before he knew it he had exited the smoke cloud and collapsed to the ground on a reverse slope, finally coming to rest in the mud at the bottom of the far ditch.

He looked around. Some distance away, further from the enemy, were the remnants of Second Squad. Several dead and a few men fighting for their lives from behind their comrades' bodies. If only he could get to them—

"Attention!" shouted an amplified, stilted voice from one of the repulsorcraft. Somehow it was speaking in Low Gothic. "We have you surrounded and outgunned! Your planet is under the control of the Galactic Empire. Surrender now, and you will be treated as prisoners of war—rather than terrorists."

Varon laughed. As his response, he raised his laspistol and fired a couple shots in the enemy's general direction. When the inevitable return fire streaked towards him, he simply collapsed back into the ditch, ignoring the bushes and brambles that scratched at his face, and crawled in the direction of his surviving squad.

"Sir!" a soldier shouted, one of his. Probably Malikor, though it was hard to tell under these conditions. "We thought you were dead, sir!"

"We are all dead men. But that won't stop us from doing our duty, now will it?" Malikor fired over his head at some unseen enemy. There were just a handful of men at this position, but they were blocking the Empire's assault for the time being—it was remarkable what a small group of determined fighters could accomplish. Varon crawled a little closer, until he was among them, and went on, "How many do we have?

"Me, Avaril, Gushon, and Metlik. Metlik's injured." More than Varon had expected, at least. Malikor gestured at the missile loader, Private Metlik, who sat still against the embankment and stared blankly into space. Blood trailed down from a cut on his temple.

"The missile launcher?"

"It was with Carval when they opened fire." Malikor tooke aim with his lasgun and downed a trooper. The enemy was all around them, but thanks to relentless defensive las-fire, they were on the ground and advancing at a crawl towards the Numorians' position. "Haven't had much time to look for it since, sir. It might not even be functional."

"I'll find it."

Varon probed the morass of mud and bodies, searching for cold, hard metal. He found something he thought at first to be promising—it was a lasgun, blasted in half. He found another contender—a metal pipe, which had probably sat rusting here for years.

The enemy was almost upon them now, they couldn't hold them off for much longer, and Varon had almost lost hope when he chanced upon it—a mostly submerged missile launcher, with a dead man's arm still attached to it. He pried off the grip of rigor mortis and shouldered the weapon. Whether it was loaded, he couldn't tell, but he had faith in the Emperor.

He rose to his knees and took aim at the middle repulsor. It was a solid, bulky craft, and he was trying to punch through its frontal armor—there was no guarantee the shot would penetrate. Nevertheless, he found the weakest-looking point and pulled the trigger. One missile shot out on a plume of smoke. It hit.

The transport went up in flames, the explosion strong enough that several hatches burst from their hinges. That was one enemy vehicle out of commission, permanently.

Varon smiled at what he'd done. Then, a shot to the chest sent him reeling, flat onto his back. His first response was surprise that he was still among the living—these heretical weapons had to be much weaker than lasguns, if he could even temporarily survive a hit in the chest from one. Malikor broke from fighting to attend to him, pulling a roll of mud-soaked bandages from his field pack.

"How does it look?" Varon asked. The pain wasn't as bad as he'd expected.

"Pretty bad, sir." Varon tried to sit up, and Malikor stopped him. "Hold up. You've done your duty."

"I'll have done my duty when I'm dead. Let me take another shot at them—that's an order."

Malikor hesitantly withdrew his arm. Varon, still holding the missile launcher, sat up—_now_ the pain was bad—and crawled up the embankment again, this time taking a somewhat more cautious approach.

"Metlik!" he called out to the loader, who still lay dazed and probably unconscious. "I need another missile!"

No response. He saw the missile at Metlik's belt, just out of reach. Malikor heard him, though, and grabbed the missile, tossing it towards Varon. It was not a moment too soon. Enemy fire caught Malikor in the forehead and killed him instantly.

Varon picked the missile up from where it had landed softly in the dirt, and slammed it down the launching tube. There was a click as it snapped into place. Then, just as he was about to take aim, another shot hit him in the shoulder. His left arm erupted in pain. No matter—his right arm was all he needed to aim and pull the trigger.

He saw the nearest repulsorcraft, twenty meters away and getting closer. He saw its turret, depressing towards him, moments away from firing and obliterating his entire position.

But Varon fired first. The missile streaked forward from its launch tube, detonated against the hull.

"The Emperor"—he coughed up blood—"The Emperor protects."

His next sight, he knew with all his heart, would be the Golden Throne of Terra.


	12. Perseverance of the Saints

Author's Note: A while ago I promised some Sisters of Battle. Here they are!

* * *

**Delyria, 2.31 AVY:**

Zara Kentarian paused in her writing, allowing the ink to dry before she turned the page. She held the fountain pen near her cheek as she composed her next thoughts. The air of her cell was choked with candle smoke, which did not aid concentration.

She was some thousands of words into describing the adventures of Saint Lorre Elisarus, the Redeemer, who had faced the heretical Dzhomite Cult and burnt one thousand nonbelievers on a makeshift pyre.

How best to describe the twisting flames, the screeching of a thousand pitiful wretches as they perished? Zara ought to know; she had been there. She had stood at Saint Elisarus' side during the executions, though Zara had ultimately returned from that cursed world, and Elisarus had not.

In a few chapters she would be writing about Elisarus' death at the hands of the dreaded Heretic Astartes. While she hadn't witnessed that particular event, the few Sororitas who'd survived it reported that the Saint had manifested a red-hot lance of the Emperor's wrath, with which she had slain three Astartes and pierced the armor of a Dreadnought before finally falling in His service. These were deeds of legend, and Zara owed it to her dead friend to write a proper account of her martyrdom.

But she was getting ahead of herself. She was still on the Burning of the Dzhomites. Confident that the ink was dry, she flipped over the page to its as-yet unmarked reverse side, and pressed pen to paper:

_I stood on the Saint's left-hand side, looking out from the governor's balcony over the city square where we had built our pyre. It was thirty meters to a side, packed with heretics atop a bed of promethium-soaked planks, and at each corner stood a sister with a flamer. Devouring heat and untold misery awaited these wretched souls, both here and in the world beyond; the Emperor's wrath was soon to descend upon them with the force of a boot stamping on some pitiful insect. _

She paused. She had used the insect metaphor a few pages before, when discussing the campaign against the Dzhomite fortress at Ghuzimir. There had to be some other way to—

There was a knock at the door, breaking her concentration. She looked over her shoulder, then set down the pen and stood. The joints of her armor whirred. She was not planning to fight today—this was a tranquil world, far removed from most of the galaxy's horrors—but it was all too easy to forget the subtleties of Sororitas power armor, and so she wore it like a second skin, removed only when she slept.

Her cell was not large. Within seconds she was across it, standing by the entrance, and she pressed a finger to the activation rune. The door slid away to reveal another woman in power armor waiting outside.

It was Canoness Commander Irene Rasczak, leader of the Sixth Commandery. Under her tutelage served the two hundred Battle-Sisters of the shrine-fortress at Delyria. Like Zara, she wore stark black cloth around the plates of her armor—mourning Katherine, the patron saint of the Order of Our Martyred Lady, who had perished fighting the Witch-cult of Mnestteus—and, also like Zara, she had bleached white hair down to her shoulders, commemorating another founding Sister, Alicia Dominica, whose hair had turned white upon meeting the Emperor Himself. There was a wealth of history in the Adepta Sororitas. Many heroes for today's warriors and martyrs to live up to.

"Sister Kentarian," Rasczak said. "Your writing goes well, I hope?"

"Well enough, Canoness," replied Zara. "We all know that the deeds of saints are not easily described."

"I am sure you can manage." The Canoness frowned. "Unfortunately, you will have to part with your work for the time being. There are ill tidings from elsewhere in the Scarus Sector."

There were always ill tidings from somewhere, in this age of trials and tribulations. Sometimes it seemed the whole galaxy was coming apart. "Is it greenskins? Another heretic incursion?"

"Come. Let us discuss." Rasczak stepped back, and beckoned for Zara to follow her into the corridor outside. Zara shut the cell door behind her. The two Sisters walked together down the empty hallway, between tall stone walls lit by flickering torchlight, while songs of prayer and penance echoed softly from a far-off chapel. This was a peaceful place; the last time anybody here had seen combat was more than a year before, when the First and Second Missions had been dispatched to deal with an uprising of iconoclasts on a nearby planet.

"We have a guest who brought us the news," Rasczak continued. "Inquisitor Miletus."

Zara raised an eyebrow. "Miletus? Here?"

"His ship pulled into orbit an hour ago. I only found out by the time he'd descended to the spaceport."

They entered a long gallery adjacent to the Sisters' dormitory, where display cases housed suits of power armor damaged in ancient battles. Here was a hole punched by a heretic bolter two thousand years ago; there, scorch marks sustained at the Assault on Lemas Prime.

"And why wasn't I informed earlier?"

The Canoness shot her an unforgiving look. "Know your place, Palatine. I was busy hearing what the Inquisitor had to say."

Zara was technically Rasczak's second-in-command, though one wouldn't be able to tell that just by eavesdropping on them. A Palatine deserved more respect than she generally got.

The cruel thing was, Zara had nearly gotten a command of her own. She had been on the shortlist for a post leading the Seventh Commandery, until she was undercut by what reeked of favoritism by the Canoness Preceptor. The Preceptor's closest protegé—and, as the most scandalous rumors had it, lover—had received the command instead, her general lack of experience notwithstanding, while Zara had ended up relegated to a supporting role in the Sixth Commandery.

She would prove herself, one of these days. The Canoness Preceptor would regret sidelining her. For now, though, she deferred to her superior through gritted teeth.

"I apologize, Canoness. I was impudent."

"You were. But I digress; there is work we must attend to."

They left the gallery behind, passing onto a walkway running along the outside of the building. There was a strong and salty ocean breeze. To the left were the walls and Gothic arches of the convent, towering far overhead, and to the left, beyond a balustrade, was a wide and tranquil harbor, where the spires of Delyria's third-largest city met the indigo waves. Watercraft ventured into and out of the docks, some carrying a handful of passengers, while others were full-fledged ships bound for destinations far across the sea. Aside from the Sororitas convent here and a perpetually bored PDF garrison, this world bore few signs of war. How long would that last?

"You still haven't told me who the enemy is," Zara said.

"That's because nobody is entirely sure." Rasczak proceeded at a swift pace, amplified by the motorized joints of her power armor. Zara kept up easily. "Here's what we know: around thirty-five days ago, an unknown fleet attacked several of our worlds, bombarding them from orbit until there was nothing left but slag. Only at Graval Prime did the Imperial Navy force a battle and drive the enemy away."

Zara frowned. "How many planets did we lose?"

"Unknown. News travels slowly. But Miletus believes the number is at least eight, distributed more or less randomly across the sector."

"When did he hear of it?"

"The cruiser he's been traveling aboard, the _Absolution_, picked up an astropathic communication some time ago. The message was fragmented and disjointed, as they tend to be, but it communicated the basics. Apparently the enemy vessels were of a type never seen before."

"Curious."

"That's not the half of it."

Seagulls squawked out in the harbor, while waves lapped against the quays and jetties and short stretches of stony beach. Zara and Rasczak turned a corner, bringing them onto the side of the hexagonal convent which faced the open ocean, and just a few paces away stood three people, by the balustrade—Inquisitor Miletus and his small retinue.

Besides Miletus, Zara recognized Orana Pellas, a Guard veteran who often accompanied him on his adventures. She was from the world of Pirea, some planet on the Eastern Fringe that had recently resisted a tyranid invasion and accumulated many experienced soldiers as a result. Her armor, moulded on the Cadian pattern, was green with splashes of brown paint, and the barrel of a lasgun jutted from behind her shoulder.

The other agent was a techpriest Zara had never seen before. He wore the standard Mechanicum garb—red robe and hood fluttering in the sea breeze, glowing green eyepiece—though he had fewer cybernetic modifications than most of his fellows, remaining recognizably human.

Miletus himself was as impressive as he had been the last time she'd seen him, during the campaign against the heretical Dzhomites, though he had put on a little weight since then. He wore a thick green jacket and cape, adorned with all the accoutrements of an esteemed servant of the God-Emperor: aiguillettes, gold ribbons, plus more practical additions such as a sword, a carrying pouch, and Krak grenades. His hair was short, a buzz cut. There was a long scar across his brow and cheek—inflicted, it was rumored, by a possessed Space Marine of the Word Bearers Legion. Twin servo-skulls hovered over either shoulder, watching.

"Canoness Commander. Palatine." Miletus said, as the Sisters approached. "It is good to see you again, Palatine Kentarian. You will have previously met Orana Pellas, my combat specialist, but let me introduce Zoron Tacytalis, of the Adeptus Mechanicus." He gestured towards the tech-priest. "Has your commander already filled you in on the new developments?"

"Only the basics," Rasczak said, before Zara could reply for herself.

"No worries. We will have ample time to discuss the situation on our voyage out, not that we know too much at this point."

Zara raised an eyebrow. "We are leaving Delyria?"

"_You_ are leaving Delyria," Rasczak told her. "You will take the Third Mission and assist the Inquisitor in securing whatever objectives he may require. I would prefer to go myself—frankly, I don't think you're really up to the task—but there are complications that keep me here."

"I see." Zara knew better than to ask about the "complications." "And what are these new developments, Inquisitor? My Canoness only told me that an unknown fleet struck several of our worlds."

Miletus nodded. "They came completely without warning. Twenty grey, wedge-shaped vessels, never before seen, appeared near Graval Prime and started bombarding the planet below, then engaged a Navy flotilla that happened to be refueling there. We lost one ship; they lost three. The battered carcass of one of them remains in orbit, I am told."

"I take it we are heading to Graval Prime?"

"Yes. We will be able to gather more information at the site of the battle, instead of waiting for reports to trickle through astropaths and passing freighters."

"Are they xenos or heretics?"

The Inquisitor smirked, an expression that looked uncanny on his scarred face. "Now, there's the question. Last I heard, local authorities were planning to board the crippled ship to find out, but I have heard nothing of the results." He raised a finger. "The Ordo Xenos will be on the case, too. It is imperative that we get there first and dictate terms, even if these new enemies really are xenos—I know that the other Inquisitors will take every opportunity to steal what should be our department."

Not all Imperial organizations got along perfectly. The Ordo Xenos and the Ordo Hereticus were no exception, and that wasn't even getting into the disputes between the Radicals and the Puritans within the Inquisition. Zara knew that Miletus had his fair share of rivals.

"I see," Zara said. She glanced at the Canoness. "And when will we leave?"

"As soon as your command is ready. Make it a matter of hours."

"Understood. I will alert the other Sisters, then. Canoness, can you arrange for a civilian shuttle to the _Absolution_?"

Rasczak nodded. Zara fought to repress a smile. This was it, an independent command away from the overbearing rule of the Canoness. A Mission was not a large force-about five squads, or fifty Sisters—but attached to an Inquisitorial retinue it could make quite the difference. With Miletus they would end up right where they were most critical, that was for sure. And that would bring plenty of opportunities to prove her skill...

She might yet get a Commandery of her own, sooner than expected. Zara looked out across the ocean, where the sun had descended halfway behind a bank of clouds, and realized she had been waiting for a chance to leave this all-too-peaceful world behind. Glory was out there.

"Canoness, Inquisitor—if you will excuse me, I have preparations to make."

"Walk in the Emperor's light, Kentarian," Miletus said.

She made the sign of the Aquila, then turned and walked back the way she'd come.

* * *

Be sure to leave a review and follow if you're enjoying my story! Next time, expect the first meeting of Luke and Vader...


	13. The Son of Anakin

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay, guys! More chapters coming soon. Here is the long-awaited meeting between Luke and his father!

* * *

**Aboard the **_**Demolisher**_**, 2.35 AVY:**

Luke adjusted his belt buckle, hopefully for the last time, and then turned his attention to his cap, which had somehow rotated a few degrees off-center. He had to be more than presentable—he was about to meet some of the most powerful men in the Empire.

"How do I look?" he asked Mara, his plus-one for the event, who stood next to him in the corridor outside the banquet hall. A few dignitaries and officers passed by, paying the pilots no attention save for a few glances at the Imperial Badge of Merit on Luke's chest.

"Like a war hero," she replied, grinning. "Don't sweat it, Luke."

They wore black dress uniforms, standard for TIE pilots on formal occasions. Mara looked quite fashionable in hers: with blue eyes and brown hair tied up in a ponytail beneath her cap, she was the young, female face of the Empire's future. No longer was the Imperial military the domain of men alone—Palpatine himself was pushing for more women in the ranks. One day, perhaps, non-humans would be welcome too, though such a day was far off indeed. Anti-alien sentiment ran deep.

"All right. You ready?" Luke said.

"I've been ready for a couple minutes now. You're the one holding us up."

"Right. Let's go, then."

They started down the corridor. Far ahead of them, a white-uniformed Grand Admiral, one of only sixteen in the Empire, marched past the guards on either side of the entrance. They didn't even bother to check his identification.

"Look! That's Grand Admiral Orban!" Mara said, grabbing his arm and pointing.

"Yep, I see him." Luke hadn't matched the face to the name—Orban was yet another Imperial officer with a mustache and greying hair—but he recognized him now. He had commanded the Eighth Fleet during the Dzungar Uprising, and was these days rumored to be in the running for command of the Extragalactic Campaign's naval forces. "They're really bringing out the big guns."

"I heard Tarkin's going to be here, too."

Luke's eyes widened. "Grand Moff Tarkin? Really?"

"Not _the_ Tarkin, silly. His nephew."

"Somewhat less exciting."

"He's a war hero like you. Played a key role during the capture of Numor's capital city, or so I've heard."

They got into line behind a dozen other officers waiting outside the door. They were almost without a doubt the lowest-ranking people here, besides some of the stormtroopers providing security, and perhaps a scattering of other humble war heroes who had distinguished themselves. Luke wondered why he had been invited at all; surely shooting down seven enemy fighters, while impressive, didn't warrant a spot in the same room as a Grand Admiral?

He gave the matter little further thought. The line shortened in front of him, as guards processed the banquet's many guests with typical Imperial efficiency, and his turn arrived soon enough. A stormtrooper checked his and Mara's identification cards against a datapad.

"Luke Skywalker and Mara Aurelian?" the trooper asked.

"That's us," Mara said.

"You will sit at the Heroes' Table. Far left, halfway towards the podium. Congratulations."

Luke passed through the door into the banquet hall. Up until recently he hadn't known that Star Destroyers even carried such rooms as this, though it wasn't too much of a surprise given an ISD's sheer size. It was tall—about two decks—and it had enough of a footprint to fit maybe six hundred people, though there were only two hundred or so here today. An interior balcony on one wall looked out over rows of tables, stocked with drinks and food. Columns lined the sides; where they met the ceiling, a strip of marble running around all four edges bore Aurebesh text, excerpts from Palpatine's Proclamation of the New Order. He caught snippets as he looked around:

_The remaining Jedi will be hunted down and defeated!_

… _the corruption that plagued the Republic in its later years will never take root._

_Ten thousand years of peace begins today!_

It was the foundational speech of the Empire, adorning a room that now contained many of that same Empire's greatest figures. Some had been well into their careers by the time the Emperor delivered it; some had just begun their service in the dying Republic's military. Luke hadn't even been born yet.

He navigated with Mara through the press of uniforms. Imperial Navy, Army, Stormtrooper Corps, Intelligence—they were all represented here, at numerous levels, a zoo of different rank plaques indicating exactly where each man was in the hierarchy. Officers chatted with each other, sitting and standing. Many sipped from glasses delivered by various alien servants.

How many of them, he wondered, had overseen forced labor? How many had ordered blockades which killed thousands of women and children? Luke was loyal, at the end of the day, but he was not blind. The Empire had blood on its hands, and so did the people in this room.

They found and approached the Heroes' Table, dodging a cluster of senior Stormtrooper Corps officers who were walking forward with little consideration for anyone else. At the table, large enough to seat twelve, they found only a single man sitting with one leg crossed over the other, sipping wine. He regarded them as they sat down three places away.

"You must be Squadron Leader Skywalker," the man said, leaning across the table to initiate a handshake, which Luke accepted. "Double ace, and hero of Graval Prime. I too am a hero of Graval Prime, I'll have you know—I kept the guns on the _Torment_ firing long after main power failed and atmosphere leaked out. Name's Hansa Qelor."

He was dark-skinned, bald, probably only five years older than Luke was. His rank plaque was that of a Navy commander.

"Pleasure to meet you," Luke said. "This here's my plus-one, Flight Lieutenant Mara Aurelian. We serve in the same squadron aboard the _Steadfast_."

"Ah. I was going to bring a plus-one, too, but he decided he had urgent business elsewhere, as of two hours ago. Typical Intelligence types. Never can count on them."

"You have a friend in Imperial Intelligence?"

Qelor took a sip of his wine, then set the empty glass on the table, smirking. "Did I say I did? You must be hearing things, squadron leader."

Luke rolled his eyes. "So who else is going to join us here, anyway?"

"Let's see." Qelor counted them off on his fingers. "Some stormtrooper officers, plus another couple naval commanders, plus the younger Tarkin, of course. There will probably be some empty seats left over."

"Looks like we have about ten minutes until this thing officially starts," Mara said, gesturing towards a clock on one wall. "I'm starving, I hope they bring out good food."

"They generally do," Qelor said. "Ever been to a victory gala before?"

Luke shook his head. "No. Have you?"

"Once or twice. Not my first time as a Hero of the Empire. This _is_ a special occasion though—conquest of a new galaxy and all that. That, and I've heard from an anonymous source that the Grand Admiral will use the occasion to offer me command of the _Torment_. But hush—it's supposed to be a surprise." That smirk again.

"What happened to the previous captain?" Mara asked. "Killed in action?"

"No, actually. Shot himself on the flight back through the other galaxy's hyperspace." Qelor furrowed his brow. "Strange. I never took him for a suicide risk. Left behind an incomprehensible note, too—the things he drew…"

A Mon Calamari servant appeared beside the table, offering a tray of drinks. Luke took from it a glass containing some unknown red liquid. He looked over the alien, marveling at its telescoping eyes, tendrils, and clammy red skin, so thoroughly unlike the human species. According to Imperial orthodoxy, the Mon Calamari and other races were destined by fate to a secondary role in the galaxy. He disagreed with that orthodoxy, wished that the xenophobia of the Empire would dissipate in the years to come, but at the end of the day, who was he to question it? He was just a lowly squadron leader.

Qelor also took a glass, and thanked the servant, which surprised Luke. The Mon Calamari bowed its head and walked off to another cluster of officers.

"Anyway," Qelor said. "I was quite disturbed by Captain Gilfraham's suicide. I've been following the investigation, but they haven't come to any conclusions."

"There's something about that place," Luke said. He remembered the black figure in his dreams, the crimson sky, the soaring Gothic architecture. Nightmares were never so vivid in his home galaxy. "I had the strangest dreams, when I was on the other side."

He took a sip from his glass. Whatever it was tasted of fruit and alcohol. It reminded him of what he'd used to drink back home, on Tatooine, during his occasional day trips to the saloon in Anchorhead.

"Apparently about a fifth of people report as much. Perhaps they are more sensitive to…" The commander shrugged. "Something."

"Probably just some quirk of hyperspace," Mara put in. When Luke looked doubtfully at her, she added, "Be rational. The other universe obeys the laws of physics, same as us."

"Come on, Mara," Luke said. "Surely you can't deny…"

He trailed off, exchanging glances with Mara and Qelor. Something was very wrong. In another moment he realized what it was: the background of chatter and merriment had cut to dead silence.

The door was open. A new guest had entered the room. Luke heard his breathing before he caught sight of him—a deep rasp, the sound of lungs and machines working begrudgingly together. Then he spotted the deathly mask that had graced a hundred propaganda posters: that of Lord Vader.

He wore a black suit, fully enclosed, with a triangular respirator covering his mouth and two panes of plastic hiding his eyes. There was something skull-like, perhaps insectoid about it. Luke wondered what lay behind that mask. He'd heard rumors: some said Vader had been gravely wounded during the Clone Wars, others that he had been badly burned in a terrorist attack.

"Huh," Qelor said, very quietly, as others around the banquet hall started to murmur. "I didn't know Lord Vader was going to be attending. Must be here as the Emperor's personal representative."

Luke glanced at him for a moment, then turned back towards Vader. All eyes were on the man in black. Even Grand Admiral Orban, resplendent in his white uniform, had a grave look on his face.

"Lord Vader," said a Navy officer, probably the _Demolisher_'s captain and one of the gala's main organizers, walking forward. "It is an unexpected honor for you to grace us with your presence. Had we known you would be attending, we would have—"

Vader raised a hand. "That is all very good, captain, but I need no obeisances. I merely wish to inspect the men who are leading this most crucial campaign for the Empire."

"Of course," said the captain. "If you have need of anything, anything at all, do not hesitate to ask me or my staff."

"You will be made aware if anything is not to my satisfaction." Vader waved him away. Luke turned back towards Mara and Qelor, worried that staring too long would make him stand out, and tried his best to quietly resume conversation. The banquet hall returned to some measure of its former bustle. Vader wandered among the various Imperial officers, subjecting them to a level of scrutiny that would doubtless ruin the gala.

"Never in my life did I think I'd see him in person," Luke said. "I mean… one of the most powerful men in the Empire! Here!"

"Uh, Luke?" Mara said.

"What?"

She glanced over his shoulder, bidding with her eyes for him to do the same. He looked.

Before Luke had even turned his head, he felt a presence—something vast, dark, cold, a shadow fast approaching. Was it one of those hunches of his, that had saved him from so many laser beams while out on patrol? It was impossible to know what was behind it. Not everything could be explained, as he was beginning to discover.

Lord Vader was walking straight towards him. Without slowing down, without showing any discernible expression, he was more like a freight train than a human. Only when he was a few paces away did he stop, towering above Luke.

"Skywalker," Vader said, in that deep voice of his.

"My Lord." Luke cast his eyes down. He still felt the presence, probing, searching. For a long moment Vader stood silently.

"I have heard much about your service during Operation Falcon. You have risen far, but your journey is only beginning."

"I only seek to serve the Empire, Lord Vader."  
"Look at me, squadron leader." Luke looked up, and Vader went on, "What planet are you from?"

"Tatooine."

"Tatooine." Vader paused. "I was there, a long time ago. You have done well to leave that world behind. The only things there are sand and death."

Mara shot Luke a worried glance. She was doubtless thinking the same thing that he was: why was the Empire's darkest, most enigmatic figure suddenly taking an interest in him?

He tried to say something, and failed. Instead there was silence at the table as Vader inscrutably regarded him. Then:

"It seems your talents are wasted as a pilot, young Skywalker. We will meet again, and soon."

As suddenly as he had arrived, Lord Vader turned and departed, probably off to intimidate someone else. Luke breathed a sigh of relief. The evil presence receded, like a dissipating headache.

"What was that about?" Qelor asked, furrowing his brow.

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"Maybe he just wanted to meet a war hero?" Mara said.

"I'm also a war hero, and he didn't even acknowledge me," Qelor said. "No, Luke, it was something about _you_."

Luke looked over his shoulder again. Vader's back was to him—he was talking with Grand Admiral Orban and a number of other Imperial bigwigs—but he sensed that he still had not escaped the attention of the Emperor's right hand.

* * *

They came for Luke late in the night, or perhaps early in the morning. He was in his guest cabin, fast asleep, when at once the door swung open and slammed against the wall. The noise roused him instantly. When he sat up he saw a stormtrooper standing in the doorway, another close behind. They did not have their weapons raised.

"Squadron Leader Luke Skywalker. Get dressed and come with us."

"Huh?"

Luke blinked. He searched for Mara, then remembered she had left for her own quarters some hours before.

"I said come with us, squadron leader."

What was this? Was he under arrest? He was a loyal citizen of the Empire, a war hero, they couldn't be arresting him.

"May I ask what the charges are?"

The troopers walked across his cabin—it was not large—and one grabbed his arm, pulling him out of bed.

"Move!"

Luke found his uniform crumpled up on the floor, and scrambled into it. He would not look extremely presentable, not with the fabric wrinkled and his rank plaque tilted at an angle, but it was a start. The moment he finished, the stormtroopers shoved him towards the door. They did not handcuff him.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.

"Stop asking questions."

The hallway was empty, save for a third stormtrooper, waiting outside, who joined the first two as they brought Luke past.

He could technically make a run for it, but he wouldn't make it far. The troopers would be prepared to chase him down and tackle him. Or they would just open fire, if they didn't need him alive.

So Luke did not resist. They marched him in silence through long corridors, almost deserted at this hour of the night. Those few people who appeared didn't look at him. Why would someone look at a prisoner, a man who might as well have been dead? He imagined himself being quietly disappeared by the Imperial state, stricken from the record books as if he had never existed, forgotten by any loyal citizen.

Then again, they weren't using handcuffs. If this were an arrest they would have used handcuffs.

More corridors. A turbolift. He allowed himself to fall into a daze, only barely taking in his surroundings. Then, without warning, they shoved him through a doorway—and then closed it behind him.

Luke was alone in a dark room, somewhere deep within the bowels of the Star Destroyer _Demolisher_. A storage bay, probably. There was no cargo that he could see. Just empty walls, and shadows… and a dark figure on the far side, breathing the deep, mechanical breaths he had heard earlier that day.

"I told you we would meet again," Vader said, stepping forward.

"Lord Vader," Luke said. He knelt, trembling. "I'm just a pilot. What could you possibly want with me?"

"You are much more than a pilot, young Skywalker. I have heard the rumors. You have unnatural agility, you can see things before they happen—you are very powerful indeed. You must now unleash that power, and master it."

Vader tossed something towards him. Something small and light. Luke fumbled and dropped it, then reached down to pick it up again. His fingers met with cold metal, a cylinder with buttons and a few stubby fins and other protrusions he couldn't guess the function of.

"I expected better."

"It's dark. I couldn't see it."

"That is no excuse. You must see things with your feelings, Luke. With the Force."

He turned the object over in his hands. "What is this?"

"A lightsaber. The ancient weapon of the Jedi—and the Sith."

Luke had heard of the Jedi, and of lightsabers. Wizards and their esoteric weapons. But he could not fathom what the Sith were supposed to be.

There was a hum as Vader extended his own lightsaber, a crimson blade of plasma more than a meter long, burning bright like a blaster bolt frozen in place. A red glow brought the walls into clearer view, and reflected off the smooth metal of Vader's helmet. Luke backed away.

"Please," he said. "Don't kill me."

"Defend yourself."

Vader lunged forward, swinging the blade in a wide arc. Luke dodged and in the process fell to the ground. He got the feeling that if Vader had really wanted him dead, he would be.

"Stand up!" Vader said.

Luke stood, and tried frantically to activate the lightsaber he had been given. The first button did nothing, but the second seemed to work—green plasma shot out, giving off heat, narrowly missing his left arm as it extended. He would have to be more careful next time.

Vader swung again, but this time Luke sensed it beforehand. It was just like it had been with the laser batteries over Ophidia, a hunch, a premonition of doom appearing just in time for him to do something about it. He parried the blow, forcing Vader's lightsaber to slide harmlessly off the end of his own.

"Your weapon belonged once to a Jedi Knight," Vader said. They stood facing each other, lightsabers ready to strike, though Luke was nowhere near confident enough to launch an attack of his own. "He went into hiding after the end of the Clone Wars. I hunted him down, and killed him. Just as I could kill you now if I so chose. It would be… trivial."

Another attack by Vader. Another parry.

"I sense great potential in you," Lord Vader went on. "I sensed it as soon as I walked up to your table at the banquet, and I knew at once who you were."

"I'm nobody."

"No." Vader stepped forward, and Luke retreated, until his back was up against the wall. "Tell me. What do you know about your father?"

"His name was Anakin. He was a navigator, on a spice freighter, and he died before I was born. My uncle told me."

"Yes. Your 'uncle,' Owen Lars. A mere moisture farmer."

"How did you—"

Vader made a thrust towards him, which Luke only deflected when it was inches from his chest. The sabers clashed and cracked and hummed.

"Do you really think I didn't read your file?" Vader stepped back, offering Luke a short moment to catch his breath and collect his wits. "It is a wonder you escaped my notice as long as you did. Especially given your last name."

"What does my last name have to do with anything?"

They crossed blades again. This time, Vader was more forceful, almost overwhelming Luke. He had to summon his reserves of strength just to keep the lightsaber away from him.

"Anakin Skywalker was no spice trader—he was the most powerful Jedi in the Galaxy, and an unrivaled pilot. You inherited his strength in the Force."

"Then what happened to him?"  
"He is very much alive." Vader retracted his lightsaber and clipped it to his side, halving the amount of light in the storeroom. Everything Luke saw was bathed in green. "Your father stands before you now."

"No." Luke shook his head, imagining with horror a face like his own behind that black mask. "No, that's impossible."

Vader—his father!—raised a hand, and the Jedi lightsaber came flying out of Luke's grasp, deactivating midair. They were both plunged back into darkness. His eyes having adjusted to the bright glow of the sabers, he couldn't see a thing.

"My task is to kill you," Vader said. "The Emperor wills it. He knows your potential, same as I do, and sees you as a threat. But I have a greater use…"

Luke stepped forward. In the darkness, however, a power cable on the floor snagged his foot, and he fell. It would be enough to bruise his knees.

"The Emperor will be made to believe that you are dead," Vader went on. "He may doubt me, at first, but you will be kept far from him, until the time is right."

Luke groped around on the floor, then hesitantly stood. "But… my squadron? My friends?"

"They will be told never to speak of you. You will vanish, Luke. You will not exist in a single written record, and when you do appear, it will be as my shadow—my apprentice."

This was too much. He couldn't go from a hero of the Empire to presumed dead within the span of a day, and he couldn't give up the entire life he'd known—and his career, and Mara—just to follow a wizard in a black suit who claimed to be his father.

But… Vader _was_ his father. He sensed it, knew it in his bones. This man—whatever was left of him, underneath that armor, behind that mask—was Anakin Skywalker.

"Why should I serve you?" he asked, even though he knew Vader could kill him in an instant.

"You will unlock power you never dreamed of," his father replied. "The Force will toughen you, strengthen you, and bring you to the very forefront of the Empire. Have you ever wished things could be different, Luke?"

Luke nodded, though in the darkness he doubted Vader could see it. He knew too well the slavery, the repressions, the Moffs who grew fat and lazy off the backs of the people. At present he was only a passive bystander, but what if he could be more? "Yes, I have. I would make many changes if I were in charge."

"This is your chance. We shall become greater than the Emperor, and bring our own order to the Galaxy—to both galaxies. _You_ will have the power."

A gloved hand reached out, rested on his shoulder. Luke knelt again. He took a deep breath.

"Father."

* * *

Author's Note: Hope you all enjoyed this chapter. Tune in next time for the introduction of the Death Korps of Krieg, and a snapshot of the Siege of Vraks!


End file.
